Therapeutic
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: Leroux Sequel: An existential and psychological journey through the mind of our beloved Opera Ghost as he explores the many types of love, examines his past, and at last attains “what everyone else has” and much more. Cameos by S. Freud and J. Merrick.
1. Chapter 1: Introduction

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For those who need a memory jog or a reference point to make a distinction between the end of the book and the end of the movie, here are a few paragraphs from the end of the novel.

DISCLAIMER: The paragraph below is copied and pasted directly from the novel by Gaston Leroux. The copyright would be his, except that it has apparently passed into the public domain over time. (Does that mean we all own a little tiny piece of it? Hmmm...) Anyway, though I own a _copy_ of the book, I don't own the rights to any of it, including the paragraphs I reproduce here. Further, I don't own the characters. Finally, I'm working with the characters as Leroux described them. Any similarity to any of the movies or musicals bearing the same title or to the novel which was inspired by the novel referenced above is unintentional and purely coincidental—but please inform me of it so I can correct it if I need to!

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FOR YOUR REFERENCE  
(The original Leroux follows:)

The monster resumed his mask and collected his strength to leave  
the daroga. He told him that, when he felt his end to be very  
near at hand, he would send him, in gratitude for the kindness  
which the Persian had once shown him, that which he held dearest  
in the world: all Christine Daae's papers, which she had written  
for Raoul's benefit and left with Erik, together with a few  
objects belonging to her, such as a pair of gloves, a shoe-buckle  
and two pocket-handkerchiefs. In reply to the Persian's questions,  
Erik told him that the two young people, at soon as they found  
themselves free, had resolved to go and look for a priest in some  
lonely spot where they could hide their happiness and that,  
with this object in view, they had started from "the northern  
railway station of the world." Lastly, Erik relied on the Persian,  
as soon as he received the promised relics and papers, to inform  
the young couple of his death and to advertise it in the EPOQUE.

That was all. The Persian saw Erik to the door of his flat,  
and Darius helped him down to the street. A cab was waiting for him.  
Erik stepped in; and the Persian, who had gone back to the window,  
heard him say to the driver:

"Go to the Opera."

And the cab drove off into the night.

The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Erik for the last time.  
Three weeks later, the Epoque published this advertisement:

"Erik is dead." (p. 250-251)

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FINALLY--one LAST note: This is the version that was re-posted on 4/13/2008. There are not too many differences between it and the version I originally posted back on 3/23/2008, but I have corrected typos and added a few more small details.

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_Therapeutic_ by Bleeding Heart Conservative

So he resumed his mask and entered the carriage to return to the Opera to die, and that, the Persian thought, was the last he'd see of him. Nearly three weeks later, he received the papers and relics Erik had promised to send and advertised the death simply in the _Epoque _as he had promised he would. It didn't occur to him to wonder how Erik had managed this. Though Erik had promised to send "when he felt his end to be very near at hand" which would seem to preclude delivering of that nature, or even hauling it to the surface, the Persian had known Erik long enough to consider him capable of nearly anything. He did not return to the opera house to verify the death. Whether the girl—Christine was her name—had read the advertisement he published as he had promised the Persian did not endeavor to determine, and whether she returned with intentions of fulfilling her promise to bury the body of her teacher and tormentor he cared still less to discover. _He_ had done as _he_ had promised. Christine had promised Erik she would take care of the details pertaining to burial, and the daroga had no reason to doubt that _she_ would keep _her_ word. Nevertheless, the simple fact remains that the body was not buried.

This was, however, not negative in the least, as little good can come of burying a body that is not yet dead, regardless of how much it may look so. No, indeed, despite his wish and his prediction, Erik did not die of his love for Christine, though he looked as though he had. Those who had described his features as looking like a dead man's skull might have been much amazed to see how much more so it was true now, and those who had previously remarked that his coat hung on a skeleton frame might consider his former physique to be quite well filled-out compared with the shriveled and shrunken shape that was what was left of the once-dreaded Opera Ghost. And anyone entering the dark recesses of the Opera and encountering these shriveled remains would have been met with a sight that far exceeded the fearful descriptions that had been made over the years of the Phantom, for in the previous years, contrary to what others might have thought, Erik had indeed made quite a show of himself and taken a great amount of time with his appearance.

It is true there was not much he could do about his face, which problem he solved of course, with the mask. He had, however, taken care to dress in the most formal of clothes, as though it were perpetually opening night, even during the day. His black coat was always clean and appeared to have been pressed. He often wore a stylish cape and always had his hair—although it was not his natural hair—neatly combed back from the edges of his perfectly placed mask of the purest white or the blackest ebony, the surface of which he had sculpted and polished from the most sensuous of materials. That is to say when he was not out to be deliberately fearful, he dressed the perfect gentleman and acted the same. Of course, he made other appearances as well, the most famous—or infamous, shall we say—was of course, as "the Red Death stalking abroad" the night of the masquerade ball. Even in endeavoring to be decidedly horrific, however, he had taken the greatest of care with his costume, making his death's head mask exquisitely and decorating his red cape spectacularly in gold trim.

After the final departure of Christine, however, he sunk into a depressive state that exponentially dwarfed his former grief at his isolation and her _potential_ abandonment of him. As there were no mirrors in his abode, and there was no longer anyone to attempt to impress, he saw no point in carefully masking himself. He further saw no reason to pay the least attention to his clothing, his hair, or his health with special emphasis on his health, as he had positively determined to die. Yes, he had determined to die, but he had not the resolve to act upon his own life, and so he teetered precariously on the edge of death, caring nothing for himself or anyone, thinking only of his sorrow. He ate nothing, drank little, composed not at all; there was no more joy in music for him. When he was sure the end was near, he crawled into his coffin and attempted to content himself with the thought that at least he was in not only the proper attire but also the proper fixture in which to be easily buried. It did not occur to him to consider the state of those clothes, to debate himself as to whether he should be masked and if so how, or to wonder whether Christine would keep her promise. He merely lay down, too exhausted now even to cry, and waited to die.

But once again, he was disappointed.


	2. Chapter 2: Meanwhile

Well, folks, here it is, as promised, though I admit 11:00 p.m. is a bit past "afternoon." Sorry. Had some unexpected guests. In the meantime, do I need a disclaimer here? Okay... I don't own any of this--except the parts are distinctly mine--which at this point means nothing but the word choice so far. I should also mention that I'm basing everything--at least so far--entirely on the Gaston Leroux version. I'm not rejecting other versions, this is just the one I wanted to work with for right now. May incorporate details from other versions later, if the urge hits, but you know... one never can tell. Hope you enjoy it at least a little. Thanks for reading!!

This chapter was revised/edited on 4/13/2008 and again on 5/26/2008, but does not differ noticeably from the original. Typos have been corrected and a few small details have been added.

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For in the time since he had taken his leave of the daroga, a great many things had happened. Christine and Raoul had indeed run off to get married, but circumstances and necessity required that they return rather abruptly. In the wake of the news of the death of Count Philippe numerous investigations had been done, first by the police, and later by snooping busybodies who purported themselves as "concerned citizens of the city." A great many people believed that the count's death was an accident, and a few believed it was the result of an ill-fated argument over Mlle. Daaé; a great many more, however, continued to believe in the opera ghost, while still others believed none of it fully and wished to inspect the place themselves. The daroga, mostly to set matters straight in his own mind writ down all he knew regarding all that had occurred, and though he did not publish it, somehow word got out and people were aware that the once-dreaded ghost was, at least according to the crazy Persian, merely a brilliant but terribly deformed man. The people of Paris, fickle as they often were, gossiped readily about Mlle. Daaé's disappearance but ceased coming to the opera house, except those few who invented some pretense in order to attempt to explore the area beneath it. Those who kept away gave various reasons—some still believed in a ghost of sorts and declared it "trop dangeroux" while others—those who believed the writings of the strange Persian daroga thought the ghost stories a lot of nonsense and were greatly incensed with the management for not having found out _the man_ and prosecuted him to the fullest extent of the law. And though some believed the man was dead (after all, the Persian fellow claimed it!) those who believed in an _actual_ ghost pointed out that ghosts could not die therefore the danger still existed. Those who did not believe wanted proof of his death before they dared return. They pointed out that claiming his own death would keep the gendarmes from searching for him, and they demanded another more thorough search be conducted. And those few who did believe him dead speculated that he might return now _as an actual ghost_. Considering how powerful he had been alive, this would be much, much worse, they cautioned.

As a result, the opera did little business. Those who held the lead roles quit and made plans to leave for Italy, for performing to an empty house could hardly be called performing at all. Those with minor roles suffered through the embarrassment to take home their meager wages upon which they had come to depend. Many had nowhere else to go, and some hung around in the hopes that larger roles would now be open to _them_, but their hopes soon fell to pieces as patrons withdrew their support and the government failed to assist the failed operation. The managers soon discovered that even without paying the ghost exorbitant amounts of money, there was not enough money left in the treasury from which to take their draw, and that was the final straw. They announced that the Opera simply had to be shut down. They could not afford to keep it open without taking a loss, which no businessman in his right mind—or even just slightly out of him mind (as these two likely were after having been the brunt of not only the ghost's practical jokes but also the full brunt of his anger)—would be willing to do. Performances ceased and this resulted in a great number of performers and an even greater number of other staff being displaced from both employ and residence. Ironically, the no-longer-haunted hall was now thought to be too dangerous to enter after the events of that fatal night. No one else wanted in. The people of the city itself and the government who acted on their behalf wanted nothing to do with it any longer.

The position of manager was offered up to anyone willing to take it on with instead of a mere salary, complete financial control with the reward of being able to reap potential profits was offered but as everyone knew there were no profits, no one expressed and interest. Nevertheless, M. Richard and M. Moncharmin wanted out and became more desperate.

And though the third Republic had commissioned the completion of the building begun two governments earlier and taken great pride in calling it the _Académie Nationale de Musique, amidst political upheaval and _ministerial reshuffles it had no real commitment to the building, which had come to be considered ostentatious, or to the art itself, which was merely a pastime for the noble and bourgeois. The city, likewise, declined to aide the failing enterprise with the tragic result that the great landmark which would someday come to be regarded as one of the architectural masterpieces of its time was pitiably _en vente_—for sale.

Into the midst of all this disappointment, anger, blame and confusion, stepped a well dressed and moderately attractive—though not entirely beautiful—woman arrived from abroad to inquire into the matter of the sale of the opera house. It was because of this woman that Erik was not able to simply die in peace.

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**Author's note:** Perhaps a bit outlandish, but then, isn't the whole idea of Erik having built it and lived beneath it outlandish as well? Let's just use our imaginations and have fun with this!


	3. Chapter 3: Elizabeth

So far, this character is the only thing I own other than my own words. All others are strictly Leroux (although with Leroux having fallen into public domain any and all of us obviously being part of the public, I think it's fair to say there's a little bit of Leroux in all of us.)

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Newly updated on 4/13/2008 but not substantially different. Typos corrected, a few words changed, a few details added.

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She was tall and slender with dark hair and a face that one could ascertain instantly had been strikingly attractive in her youth. Her precise age it was difficult to tell but those who gossiped when she walked by—and there were many—were certain that she was between thirty-something and forty-something. And as ladies do not generally discuss their age, and as this woman was decidedly a lady whether she actually possessed the title or not (and no one was entirely sure of that either) that was the closest anyone was going to come to knowing for certain. Her hair was always neatly up, her dress—always black—starched heavily, and her face generally partially covered by a thin black veil that descended from a black hat. Her lips, showing just below the edge of her fine veil, were an unnaturally bright red and her skin the palest of whites. She spoke her French with a curious accent that suggested she was not only a foreigner but a foreigner who had traveled much and learned many languages. A number of the older but still unattached men of the town had begun to eye her with desire, but those who had been close to her remarked upon the solid golden ring she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Others whispered behind their hands that someone-or-another had told them—and they weren't saying whom—that she had been overheard to state, when asked as to why her husband did not conduct this business of purchasing the opera house himself—that she had no husband at all.

She had introduced herself to the opera managers as Madam Elizabeth Smythe originally of London, England and although neither the name nor the origin was _entirely_ truthful, the managers had no way of knowing whether it was correct or not, they addressed her as such. Madame wished to visit the opera house and have a look around, and of course they obliged. Madame wished to visit again and have a more complete tour. Certainly! Madame wished to see the record books. Of course! Then Madame wished to see the fabled underground labyrinth. Oh. Well. That might not be possible...

Of course she was not frightened; did they take her for a silly young girl? She commented on the superstitious nature of the French in general and theatre folks in particular, remarked that she did not believe in ghosts and was not about to make a purchase of this magnitude without seeing every nook and cranny of the place in question. Further, if the two fine gentlemen who were to be her guides were too fearful—or even too busy as perhaps is the case—then she would have no trouble exploring the premises herself.

Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin discussed this animatedly outside the door to their office, where the lady waited inside.

"Let her try it, if she dares" said M. Richard. "If she loses herself or is taken by the ghost, she'll bother us no more."

"If she loses herself—or is taken by _anyone_—she's likely to end up dead beneath the opera house—and opera house which, I might point out, is still at this point entirely our responsibility! Should such a thing occur, besides the moral trouble one should obviously have with someone else's death on his head, there would also be the _larger_ problem of not having been able to get out of this most _miserable_ deal! This curse would be neither sold nor taken over since she is at this time our sole interested party, not withstanding the fact that it's one more death that is our responsibility!"

"It's one more death _we cannot explain_. No one has held us responsible for the others, and no one will hold us responsible for this one. And if she were to die _after _the death of the man they say was the ghost, well, it would shed doubt on the concept that he was the cause of _those _deaths, which would further complicate everything, which might serve to divert any attention from any alleged responsibility _we_ might have had. Besides, it seems she has no family—no one who would even know she is here."

"_We_ know that she is here."

"We know that she is here and that she is interested in getting us out of this terrible mess entirely—unless of course we fail to cater to her every whim!"

And so Moncharmin lost in the end—because, after all, the lady wished to assume the risk and was even willing to commit in writing that she did so solely at her own peril, and therefore the lady was permitted, if she dared, to descend into the dark recesses beneath the opera house.

And so she did.

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Psst! If you're reading this for the first time, now would be a great time to stop and review, wouldn't it?

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	4. Chapter 4: Descent

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything except that which I deliberately create. And even that seems to have a mind of its own.

Note: Typos corrected and details added on 4/13/2008

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Elizabeth obtained leave to enter the underground area beneath the stage under the pretense of knowing every detail of her investment. She wished to see everything stored, for all of the sets and scenes, all of the costumes, all of the animals housed within the stable, all of the stored scores of operas performed over the years, all of the instruments save which individual members of the orchestra owned privately—in short, everything—was to be included in the purchase price and conveyed accordingly. She was a woman who had learned at an early age, out of necessity, how to avoid being cheated in a world that believed women to be beautiful, but perhaps without wit. She explored the first level at a ready clip, pacing rapidly from one end to the other in the businesslike fashion which she had put on for the gentlemen above and found it difficult to shake off even once she was no longer within their range of sight. She descended a narrow stone staircase at one end and walked more slowly through the second level, which was more complex and took more of her time.

She got distracted exploring a large room where out-of-use costumes were being stored. She took a white gown from the rack, located a mirror and held it in front of her and sighed. How long had it been since she'd worn something like that? Years. No. Years and years. Over a decade. She returned the dress white dress to the rack and selected another, a vibrantly-colored costume and again held it up, looked at herself, sighed. How long? Never, that she could recall. She put it back and looked at herself as she was. Black upon black. She smiled sadly, ran a hand fondly over the lovely dresses as she advanced to the door on the far side of the room, then, with one wistful glance over her shoulder, she exited and descended further.

She reached the level on which the stables were located and found that she suddenly had no desire to see the horses. Frowning at her own strange inclinations, she reminded herself that she had specifically wished to visit this area and talk with those who worked there, for though the opera house was closed, the animals required constant care and therefore the grooms were still in current employ. Instead, when she reached the appropriate locale, avoided them entirely as she suddenly had no desire to encounter other people, so strange had her mood become. Perplexed, she considered that this was most unlike her, yet she continued her descent without stopping. She could always see the horses again later, the logical part of herself rationalized, if she decided she did indeed want to proceed with this strange purchase. What, after all, did she know about the opera? Certainly, she had attended quite a few in her day, but many people attend operas; few inquire into obtaining the large pieces of real estate in which they are performed! She had the money to do so, yes, but there were a myriad of other investments she could make with that money, and she had at least one other idea in mind which she imagine would benefit both herself and the world far more. She was far too old now to dance, to sing, to perform in any way, and she had never had the talent for it anyway. Even if she had, that would still not require such a purchase! It is true she had heard the stories of the hauntings and it is also true that she loved a good mystery more than most, but to base an acquisition so large on such a frivolous motive was irresponsible, a trait that Elizabeth certain was not. Why then, was she exploring this subterranean domain under the pretext of procurement?

She shook her head at the absurdity of it. The other venture she had considered was perhaps a far less pleasant job to have, and she was not entirely sure of her ability, her level of commitment, how she would endure the reactions of others, and whether the venture could have even the slightest chance for success, whereas an opera house was a far more readily explainable investment, something that could actually be mentioned socially without awkward pauses and strange open-mouthed stares. It was a topic that did not have to be roundly avoided or else explained away. In short, most people loved opera houses, and those who didn't generally respected them. Of course, she didn't have to invest the money in anything if she didn't wish to. She was not so young as to need to worry about the future, and she had no children for whom to provide. If she wished to, she could forget the whole idea of the opera house _or_ her other idea and simply live on the money left to her by her father. So why was she carefully descending into the depths of one investment option while carefully considering whether she had the fortitude to withstand the other? The simple fact was that she wanted to and she had the means to, so she allowed herself the liberty to do so without being able to articulate a reason, even to herself.

She reached the fourth level and felt a noticeable chill as the stone walls became moister and the passageways became more narrow. Holding her lantern a little higher, she moved still more slowly and looked about her more cautiously. The deeper she descended, the more it seemed she left her hard exterior behind. In the manager's office, she had spoken as a man does, mimicked their mannerisms. Across the first level she had walked with purposeful strides. The second basement provided a brief distraction, but she still remained focused, even if her steps were slower and more careful. She still focused on her business decision. Now, though, she crept close to the wall, feeling her way about, not quite frightened, but a great deal more cautious than she would have expected of herself, though whether that was due to the distance she placed between herself and the managers or something more she could not determine. She glanced behind her, though she had no thoughts of anyone following her. It simply seemed the most appropriate thing to do in a place such as this. She watched her steps carefully, walked almost on her toes, more daintily that perhaps she had throughout all her adult life. What was this strange place that it could so alter a person's perceptions and comportment? It was no surprise people thought it haunted, for its atmosphere definitely wrought a strange change upon even this woman, who had no belief in such things.

At length, she reached the fifth level. As she stepped off the narrow flight of steps she instantly noticed a change in the air, though, had she been asked to describe it, she would have been pressed to find the words. She paused to take it all in, found herself breathing deeply as one might when standing on a mountaintop surveying a spectacular view. And yet, her view was one of shadows, rough stones, murky water and debris obviously left by rats.

Yet she marveled at the intricacy of the architecture of the place. This was no ordinary basement area used for storage, nor was it simply a system of trap doors beneath the stage for special effects during a performance, nor even a system of hiding places and passageways built by the Communards, those members of the uprising against the new government. It was all that, yes, but also more, and it was spectacular. Now Elizabeth felt almost certain that the stories she had heard were believable, even if not entirely correct, and her pace and her heartbeat quickened together. She found—almost as though she had known the way—the underground lake; and she found, as though it had been waiting for her there, a small gondola-like boat. She looked around. Could it possibly be true?

She felt certain there was no ghost. She had gone searching for ghosts before without success. Either ghosts did not exist, or she was not one of those who was able to see them. Whichever the case, she knew there was little chance she would actually encounter a ghost down here.

There were those who said the depths were inhabited by a man—a man who was more a monster than a man, actually. There were those who said that the disappearance of the opera singer were the doing of this man. There were those who called it a kidnapping and those who called it a seduction.

Could any of it be true? The stories were hauntingly romantic, beautifully terrifying, sounded like tales of a hundred years past, and Elizabeth, who had long felt dead to most emotions save her drive and ambition, felt something stir within her that she nearly did not quite recognize and most certainly did not dare name.

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Does anyone want to speculate? I'd love to hear it! Just click that little blue button!!

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	5. Chapter 5: Curiosity

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Disclaimer: You know who owns what. Do I have to keep saying so?

Updated 4/13/2008 with details and typo corrections. If you find any more typos please let me know right away because I absolutely ABHOR them.

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Even as she stepped into the small boat she realized the absurdity of it. A woman like herself—a lady no less!—in a gondola on a lake, underground, in an opera house—in an opera house in Paris, France, for god's sake, Elizabeth, underground in Paris!—and rowing the boat herself, like a man! Well, what of that? She'd had to do a great many things for herself over the years, and rowing a boat was certainly not the most difficult of them, though she knew that most of society would look upon this as an act of defiance of the social norms the fabric of which held the world together, or so it seemed, at least. Even so, this were a mere fantasy. The stories could not possibly be true, and even if they were, what could she possibly hope to do there that no one else before her had done? Nevertheless, she had to cross, even if simply to satisfy her own curiosity—even if there was nothing there at all.

No siren sang for her as she reached the shore, for although the reeds were there, there was no one at all to sing through one from beneath the depths. Or rather, they may have been, but there was no one who still possessed the force of will, the determination, the desire to manipulate for any gain, not entice anyone at all. That was just as well, however, for as she was a curious woman, there is no telling what might have become of her had she heard the mournful tones from beneath the water.

Elizabeth brought her boat to a stop at the far shore, stepped out and looked around. Thus far anyway, the stories were true. There was what appeared to be a house here. Certainly, it must be a part of the set and scene for some very elaborate production, but it was here nonetheless. And as she turned the knob on the door and it opened easily to her, she thought to herself "Clearly it's a scene. This is why it unlatches so easily and why it is in this oddest of locations." Though a voice in the back of her mind questioned if it were part of the scenery, why was it not stored with the other scenery on the level above that she had previously explored? Why store it in such a place that makes it entirely inaccessible and therefore impossible to use when it was needed for a production? Furthermore, how in the world did they get it across the lake? But her thoughts on this matter were speculative only, and her curiosity drove her forward.

As she crossed the threshold she tripped over a mask, which she inadvertently kicked ahead of her as she regained her balance and looked around. She thought nothing of it. A mask in a theatre is hardly unusual. What _was_ peculiar was that the room was filled with flowers. Dead flowers, but real flowers nonetheless. She strode slowly through the room, taking in the array of various baskets and vases and the dried flower arrangements they contained. She told herself they were stored for use in productions, but the logical, scientific part of her mind insisted that they were not placed as though for storage but for decoration. Instantly she invented a variety of reasons why they might be placed as such, and almost as instantly her mind refuted every one. But it did not matter, because she had noticed the doors.

Elizabeth pushed the first door open easily, for in his grief Erik had dispensed with concerning himself with all of the mechanisms and trap doors and hidden locks, so everything functioned as it normally would in an ordinary home above ground on a natural lake. This only reinforced to Elizabeth that there was no danger here whatsoever. That thought left her feeling safe but disappointed, both feelings that were not the least bit strange to her.

The first room contained a mahogany bed and matching furniture and, though it was nicely decorated, was not interesting in the least. Elizabeth busied her mind with contemplating what she would do with an opera house if it turned out to be an ordinary opera house indeed. She didn't know much about theatre, about ballet, or about music, and while she knew some about running a business, buying an opera house was too much like buying a job; she would have to be there too much. She exited the small room telling herself that it was entirely likely that the superstitious Parisiennes would not come back in droves so soon after the tragedy unless it could be absolutely proven that the tragedy was of natural causes. And, as it is impossible to prove a negative—that is: it is impossible to prove that the opera ghost did _not_ exist—she doubted it would be a sound investment. And it was with this thought that she pushed open the second door.


	6. Chapter 6: Discovery

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Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, though I often wish I did.

Note: Once again, I corrected typos and added details on 4/13/2008. The plot hasn't changed yet.

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Elizabeth Smythe was a scientist of sorts, a woman who looked at the world logically, carefully, with an eye to detail. She was a realist, and though she enjoyed a good story as much as any human being does, she was not the type who fell to believing them. Certainly, she might shiver on a cool night after hearing a horrifying yarn, but she could also attribute it to the combination of the chill in the air and a trick that a part of her own mind might play on another part of the same. Faced with a startling situation she often jumped as instincts will have any man or woman do, but immediately thereafter she stood her ground, even ventured closer. One might imagine her with her children huddled about her—if she'd had any children to speak of—crying out "but Mama, Mama, the terrible crone will eat us alive!" and she, laughingly, leading them to show them an old scarecrow or a piece of laundry which had escaped the washerwoman's line. And it is with that same fearlessness that one should imagine her as she pushed open the second door, though it was naturally without anyone gathered round her imploring her not to do so that she did so, and entered the room and looked around.

The room was almost entirely black. The walls were not black themselves, but the heavy draperies which hung on all sides of the room—though there were, naturally, no windows this deep below the surface—were wholly sable. A dark red canopy hung in the center of the room gently concealing instead of a bed a coffin.

"What a dark and sinister production this must have been" remarked the lady softly as she entered the room. For although she considered herself a rationalist, she had not entirely abandoned her appreciation for the arts, and she was certainly capable of comprehending the mood of the set onto which she had just stepped. As she walked the perimeter of the room, she lightly touched a large music staff that decorated the wall. Having been trained to play the piano at an early age by her governess—as were most young ladies in Britain—she was able to sound out the tones. She had never been a talented musician, as she was far more interested in the sciences, but she was able to hum the first few bars and thought she recognized the familiar haunting tone, though she could not place exactly where she had heard it. She moved from the staff and continued her circuit of the room observing a huge pipe organ that covered one full wall of the room. She admired it appreciatively but stayed away from it. To hear it's tones in these depths would undoubtedly surpass even her ability to repress the funerary atmosphere of the place. Instead she walked purposefully across the room, the heels of her boots making a pleasant clomping sound on the hardwood floor much like the footsteps of the headmistress of a school during an examination. She smiled to herself that the sound was entirely out of place here in this apparent mortuary. She was still smiling as she approached the coffin.

And here her smile faded rapidly—for lying in the coffin was a body, what appeared to be a deceased body, and she trembled slightly as she recalled the murders about which she had read in the papers. Could this be the body of some poor unfortunate who had been recently—or perhaps not so recently by the look of it—murdered by whomever was the perpetrator of the crimes of which she'd read?

A prop, she told herself, for perhaps they could not spare an actor to play only a dead man. A prop... and yet she knew better. The poor soul. And so her explorations had ended, for today, anyway. She must report the body to the authorities and guide them back to retrieve it. There would be a full investigation, which would further postpone any possible purchase of the opera house, which could in fact be a good thing perhaps, since this might be a worthless investment after all. At any rate, she could wait. She was a patient woman and had made a life of her ability to wait and her refusal to let disappointment deter her. She turned to go, then abruptly turned back. Something about the corpse drew her back in sorrow.

"You poor soul" she whispered to the body, and she fell to her knees and murmured a blessing in a strange and ancient language. She bowed her head and wept, not only for the man in the box, but also for the secret dead of her own past.

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Are you wondering? I hope you're wondering something by now... why not review and let me know what you're thinking.

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	7. Chapter 7: Contact

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Disclaimer: Erik is not mine. Neither is the opera house. (Pauvre moi!)

Note: Updates done on 4/13/2008 to include typo corrections and a few details. I don't think I changed this chapter, but I can't remember for certain.

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It is hard to say exactly how long it had been between the time when Erik had crawled into the coffin for what he expected to be the last time and when he heard the weeping of the woman just outside, for he was in no condition to be aware of the passage of time. His first thought upon hearing in an unfamiliar tongue that which could only be a prayer based on the sound of it's incantation was that it was the voice of an angel; that he was, at long last, finally dead and free of his wretched body and face, and for a moment he experienced joy, but the joy fled instantly as other thoughts occurred to him. Foremost was the fact that he didn't really believe in angels or heaven or any of that other nonsense, and if he had, he'd have expected to have no chance at all of encountering either one after his death as he far more expected he deserved to end up in the other place. Further, he heard weeping—a very human sound indeed—so near to him as to be directly beside him only about a decimeter away. He heaved a heavy sigh. Ah, still alive, yes, to be breathing. And yet it was so difficult to move. He strained with the effort just of dragging his body to a sitting position. And then he saw her.

Dressed all in black, on her knees before him, sobbing disconsolately into a black-gloved hand was a slender pale-faced woman, and his heart leapt at the thought. She had come back to him! His living bride had returned to him while _he_ was yet alive! And she was weeping—weeping for him, for his death, for his very soul. And it pained him greatly to hear her cry. He reached toward her with a trembling hand but stopped just shy of touching the side of her face. Mustn't frighten her, he told himself. Wait for the right moment, else she might run away again, and perhaps for forever this time. And then another thought stopped him. Had he not asked that when she learned of his death she come back to bury him? He had, indeed. Perhaps the daroga had contacted her and she had returned for this and _this alone_. Surely the daroga had placed the advertisement as he had requested when he received the package of papers. Perhaps she had come only to fulfill her promise. Perhaps Raoul waited for her across the room, or just outside the door, or even on the other side of the lake (the cowardly fool!). Perhaps upon learning he was alive she would think him a cheat—faked his own death to bring her back once more! Or worse, perhaps she had returned only to assure herself of his death and _she was weeping with relief_. And this thought so grieved him that he fell to weeping as well and to remembering the time they had cried together, before she left—before he'd released her and _told her to go!_—, their tears mingling together, how he had taken off his mask and _she had not run away_.

And he realized with a start that not only was the mask not within his reach, but he had _absolutely no idea_ where he had last placed it when he returned, despondent, from his trip to see the daroga.

It didn't matter, though, for these thoughts flew through his head in a brief instant and were interrupted. At his first audible sob the woman started up, eyes wide and hand clutching at the place above her heart. She staggered back toward the wall, stumbling into the organ, terrified for the first time in many years.

Then she caught her breath. What a trick, she told herself. What a trick that was, and she allowed herself to smile. These theatre folks! So superstitious and so clever at once! Who would have thought that someone could create such a lifelike—or rather deathlike—figure to emerge from the coffin and weep in such a realistic way? Who would have thought, indeed! And she slowly stepped closer in the dim light, and the horror crept in again, for the—thing—she couldn't decide what to call it—the thing gripped the side of the coffin with one hand and reached out to her with the other and softly whispered "Christine? You have come back to me, Christine? Do not be afraid. It is only I. I am not quite dead yet, I think, my Christine. Do not be afraid. It is only I, your poor unhappy Erik."

In attempting to recover from her fear, she didn't hear all of it. She did discern the last few words and a name.

"Erik?" she whispered. Then again, softly, trying the name out carefully. "Erik?" It was a man, then, indeed, though the head looked shrunken and skull-like, the eyes mere hollows in which no light was discernible in the dim chamber, the nose curiously absent, and the mouth somehow twisted and lipless. The body appeared nothing more than a skeleton wrapped first in skin and then in fine but worn clothing. In her confusion at its appearance she struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation. It was surely starved near to death and had been terribly disfigured. Perhaps this was a victim of a failed murder then, mutilated facially then left to starve and die? It seemed the most likely explanation in light of its—or rather his—hideous appearance, his crying, his human name. What horrors must have occurred here! What suffering he must have endured! She put her initial fear behind her and stepped forward slowly but with resolve.

"Erik," she whispered. "Do not fear me. I won't harm you. The worst is over now. What have they done to you?"

"I will fear nothing," replied he, "now that you are with me." And he reached out his arms towards her.

She rushed to the seemingly near-dead man—it was merely two steps from where she now stood by the organ back to the center of the room to the coffin—and reached for him. The body, though frail and wasted, would be too heavy for her to carry any distance, she determined instantly. If the prisoner—or whatever he was—was to reach the ground level, he would have to be able to walk some, unless she could find something with wheels on which to convey him.

He gripped her hands in with his—which seemed clammy and yet bone dry at the same time—and she shivered. He clenched first her hands, then her shoulders, then wrapped his emaciated arms about her torso as a drowning victim clings to his rescuer, his head upon her breast, panting with sobs of relief. Her hands moved to smooth his hair. With a shock she saw the nearly bare scalp, and with a grimace that he could not see in his present posture, she placed her hands on his head anyway and stroked as though smoothing rumpled hair, feeling the strange waxy skin beneath her fingertips.

"There, there," she said aloud. "You're safe now. No one will harm you." She was about to tell him that she needed to get him up to the surface for medical attention, but she felt his body stiffen against her as she spoke the very first word, and as she was saying "no one will harm you" he tore himself from her arms with a strength that seemed impossible for one so frail. Before she could even begin to wonder what frightened or angered him, he roared, "Who are you?"

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Oh no! Now what? If you haven't read this yet, what do you think will happen next? Any reactions? This is one of my favorite chapters... I feel so bad for him here... almost makes me feel guilty for writing it... But only "almost."


	8. Chapter 8: Revelation

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Disclaimer: I still don't own it.

Note: Typos corrected and details added 4/13/2008

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He grabbed her roughly by the back of the head, displacing her hat and loosening her hair in which he tangled his bony fingers for a tighter grip. He struggled clumsily out of his coffin (but without letting go) dragged her across the room to a single gas lantern, and held her face close to it. She cried out, fearing he intended to burn her, but he stopped short and merely thrust her face into its beam of light. He brought his face closer to hers, and she caught a scent like death. In the depths of his eye sockets a faint yellow gleam flickered as his eyes probed her face with its fine lines, her eyes, a warm and soft brown, and her hair—jet black.

"Impostor!" he bellowed, throwing her to the ground. "How dare you come here? How dare you disturb me? How dare you enter my home and invade my private space? Do you come to torment me? I'll teach you a thing or two about torment before you'll ever leave!" He whirled around as though to stalk away, but then seemed to change his mind.

"You don't answer?" he said, softly but sarcastically, as he lifted her from the ground again. "Why don't you answer? Have you been struck dumb... by this?" He thrust his face close to hers again, and she fought the natural reflex to gag. She shook her head, and he shook her whole body. "Answer me!" he yelled letting go of her, and she slumped to the floor.

"What," she began with a deep breath "do you want me to answer first?" Her question started like a plea but, as she collected her wits became matter of fact and ordinary by the time she finished it. Her apparent control caught him off guard and he stared at her. "There were," she said slowly and carefully "a number of questions that you asked of me all at once. I intend to answer you entirely. I was simply trying to determine the correct words to explain and contemplating which of question to answer first. Please, let me—"

"Enough! Enough. There will be time enough to discuss this later. I have..." and he trailed off, for it wasn't at all true, "... things to do." He stalked out, leaving her sitting there on the floor off his room. As he walked away he grumbled to himself something about the wretched world and not being able _even to die_ in peace. She could hear him in the room outside, the one with all the flowers, if she remembered correctly, moving things about, lifting things and setting them aside again as though looking for something.

She stretched her limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken or even badly bruised. She touched the back of her head. Her hair was still in tact, though her once-intricate bun was mussed and several long tresses of her dark hair hung down her back. She found her hat, crumpled but not broken, on the ground not far from the coffin. She brushed it off and plunged it into the pocket of her dress. Then, gripping the wall for support—for she was in reality more frightened than she would ever reveal—she got to her feet and heaved another heavy sigh. She shook her head in amazement. It was indeed no wonder that the opera managers had discouraged her from coming here—unless this was their idea of a cruel trick! No, she reminded herself, the French would not play such a trick on a lady. The French were certainly jokesters when it came to the gentlemen, but none would ever treat a lady so roughly. Of course, perhaps the trick had already been set before they realized it was a woman coming to inquire, and the managers had been unable to send word to the man lying in wait. Even so, it seemed far-fetched, and what could be the purpose of something like that? To discourage a sale? It would have been far simpler to announce that the opera house is not for sale and will remain under its current management than to go through such trouble to frighten interested parties away! Other possibilities escaped her. This man was obviously not a captive, for he seemed to have no desire to leave—even described this place as his "private space." And yet, he had seemed joyful at first seeing her.

Oh! She sunk to her knees with the realization. The stories were true—more so than any of those who told them could have possibly imagined. This, then, was the so-called ghost? Surely, he was indeed just a man—but what a man at that! Hideous, yes, but also cruel, which surprised her, for the stories described him as a romantic, as man in love.


	9. Chapter 9: Choice

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Disclaimer: Nothings mine except this version.

Note: Typos were corrected on 4/13/2008. Let me know if any sneaked by me. A few details may have crept in as well.

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The noises in the next room increased in volume and were joined by the harsh tones of the man's—if man he could indeed be called—voice. Judging from the number of items in the room when she entered, it seemed he must have looked under everything more than once already and was now banging things about in a futile attempt to—well—she didn't know what it was he was attempting to do, really, but whatever it was, it certainly sounded futile. This idea was confirmed in part by the tone of his utterances, which seemed to go from grumbles to groans and then to something like sobs.

Realizing that her choices seemed to consist of sitting for an untold length of time on the hard cold stone floor of this room that was more a mortuary than anything else or doing something else, she resolved that something else—anything else—was the better choice. She considered that she could probably make a run for the door, but she doubted her ability to agilely get into the gondola and far enough away before he could reach her. There was little chance she could swim in her heavily starched dress, and even if she could, that would leave the gondola behind for him to follow. She considered his strength and size. He appeared to be starved, emaciated, wasting away, and yet he had lifted her off her feet and then thrown her down again. In a rage, she reminded herself. Strong emotions make such things possible, but no one could sustain rage for very long, she reasoned. But there was no way to know whether a run for the door would enrage him or not. There was no real chance she could overpower him, but perhaps if she caught him by surprise… No. She discarded the thought as quickly as it occurred. She wouldn't hurt him unless it was absolutely necessary to protect her own life; he'd clearly been through enough already; she would not add to his suffering. She concentrated but no other means of escape occurred to her. If she were to get out of this, she would have to use her wits and persuade him to cooperate. She stood, brushed the dust from her dress and entered the room of flowers. It appeared to be a parlor of sorts with a couch, a few chairs, some shelves containing books and trinkets, but not much more.

He had slumped into a chair, his terrible face cradled in his hands, and might have been weeping. She stood in the doorway and considered her options. Despite his weak appearance, he possessed some great strength to have thrown her down and lifted her again. She was not a stout woman, but tall and muscular, certainly not a waif. If he were capable of that—and he was—then he was capable of hurting her severely. And yet he hadn't. Certainly, he meant to frighten her, which he had, but that was as far as he was willing to go. And it was with this in mind that she dared to approach him.

She advanced near to where he sat, then crouched down as one might do to address a child and called his name.

"Oh," he moaned, "don't look at me. Don't look at me, whoever you are. Oh, if only you were she!" She could not think of a reply to this, so she remained silent. "Oh, why?" cried he, "Why do you do this to me, Christine?"

What was it he had called her in the dark? Impostor? Perhaps this was who she had been mistaken for in the gloom. Christine? What was the name of that singer who had disappeared? Could it have been Christine? Why then, he hadn't captured her after all! If she was still missing, she was missing from him as well! But she was getting ahead of herself. She knew nothing of this man's identity; there was no proof yet that any of the strange tales were true. Nevertheless, she specifically wished to avoid any further confusion that she was Christine or that she was pretending to be Christine, as the result had been most unpleasant, apparently for them both.

"As you've seen, I'm not Christine..." she began...


	10. Chapter 10: Christine

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Disclaimer: I don't own Christine either, though if I did I would give her a stern talking-to!

Note: Typos and details corrected and updated on 4/13/2008

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No, the woman beneath the opera house was not Christine Daaé at all. The actual Christine Daaé was, as a matter of fact, in a little flat on Rue Notre Dame-des-Victories where she had lived before with Mamma Valerius before she had come to the opera house. She was there with the old woman who had not entirely recovered from her illness and required constant care. Raoul was at the Chagny estate where he had gone to handle the details of his brother's funeral and to probate his brother's last will and testament. Raoul had been left the portion of the estate which had been previously left to him by his father, and which he had turned over to the keeping of his brother. The portion which his father had originally intended for Philippe had been divided equally among Raoul and his two sisters, but his sisters, having already received their own equal portions upon their marriages, and holding such old-fashioned views of the right of agnatic primogeniture as they had, each dutifully turned over her third-share in Philippe's portion to Raoul, trusting him to do as his elder brother had.

Raoul had, of course, begged Christine to come with him, and they had both wept bitterly, but in the end she insisted that she needed to remain chaste—not only in reality but also in the eyes of the public—until their wedding night, and that, while she trusted Raoul implicitly and had no doubt that on an estate so large she could easily be provided her own quarters and no suspicion aroused by those servants who were there to observe that she always closed herself in her own room, she worried about those who would not see and would instead use the imaginations. She pointed out that the people of Paris did not approve of their relationship and would accuse of her of things that she had not done, regardless of her efforts to the contrary. Therefore, she would give them nothing about which to gossip; she would stay with Mamma Valerius, and rightfully so as she was the closest thing she had to family now.

Once Raoul was at his estate, Christine vaguely entertained the thought of returning to the opera house to sing. It was, however, very shortly after Raoul's departure that that the opera house closed down, seemingly for good, and the advertisement appeared in the Epoque stating that the present managers were unable to keep it open and offered it at a bargain to anyone willing to take on such an enterprise. Christine occasionally passed the opera house when she went to the market, and she was occasionally possessed of a sudden urge to enter, though she had not the least concept of why. She remembered Erik. Certainly, she would always remember Erik… His voice, his lessons… but most of all, she would remember his anger. No, she would remember his anger, but more than that she would remember his hideous appearance and how he flaunted it in her face, wagging his head at her and—she shuttered. Why did she dwell on such things? It did not occur to her to remind herself that it was she who first ripped off the mask, destroying the fantasy he had created for them both. In fact, it was she who, after having repaired the damage with kind words and fond glances, had torn it off a second time causing all the greater agony that led to her eventual imprisonment, the torture, the threats made upon the city. Oh, she remembered those things, it is certain, but she managed to avoid thinking of grasping that façade in her fingers and pulling, ripping the mask from the unsuspecting creature…

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Question to contemplate: What is Christine's responsibility in this? Am I being too hard on her? Or do you just plain hate her? Click the review button and let me know--because that's far more fun than a survey.

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	11. Chapter 11: Bondage

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Disclaimer: Do I really need a disclaimer? Doesn't EVERYONE who comes to this site know that none of us own the characters or the stories we choose to write about?

Note: Like all the chapters before it, this chapter contained some typos which some very kind folks (like MadLizzy--love ya girl!) were kind enough to point out to me. So... on the eve of the thirteenth day of the fourth month of the year two-thousand eight, I corrected as many as I could discover (and, because I was there, I just figured I'd drop in an extra detail or two, just for fun).

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The creature was, at present, slumped in a chair with another woman—strangely, one who had not been lured to his lair and had, also strangely, had chosen not to run away—crouched before him and reached out in a most gentle manner.

"Listen…Erik" she began, making a point to use his name. "I'm very sorry to have intruded. I should not have come here uninvited. I was—well, I was exploring, and I never really expected to encounter anyone here. Oh! Listen to me making excuses. There is no excuse for this. I am truly sorry. Please accept my sincerest apologies." She held out her hand to him.

He sighed. He trembled. And then he said, "Will you kindly turn away?"

She pretended to be surprised and as she complied with his request she breathed a sigh of "As you wish, but whatever for?"

He was angry again. "Do you think I am stupid? Do you think I am _blind_?" He reached for her, grabbed her face, turned her to look at him. "Or perhaps it is you who is blind, which I would suspect if you had not managed to find your way here, and had I not already seen the horror on your face, which you now deny!"

"Horror!" cried she. "Horror indeed! Imagine suddenly encountering a coffin—and then finding it _occupied_ down here, such an unlikely place! And then, when I had reconciled myself to the idea that I had discovered the victim of a murder to have _that same body_ sit up and _speak _to me!" She tried to emphasize that it was the situation, not him, not his appearance, for she wished to avoid his anger as much as possible. "Do you know anyone who, in such a situation, wouldn't be horrified?"

And again his anger subsided into sorrow. "Alas, I know too many who are horrified by me." He dragged himself from the chair and resumed his search for something that was apparently nowhere. And it occurred to her what it might be.

Keeping her eyes averted, she crawled toward the door through which she had entered the home—the place where she had tripped upon a white mask, sent it scuttling in front of her, and had thought nothing of it. She retrieved it now and held out, tentatively. "Is this what you're looking for?" she called softly without looking up. She felt it snatched from her hand, heard him walking away. Of course, a moment later he was back and slumped into another chair because, of course, he had no place in particular to go and nothing in particular to do. After all, he had already determined to die and was merely waiting, though she could not possibly have known this. She stood, slowly and carefully. She spoke his name and waited until his disturbed eyes glared at her from behind the mask.

"I'm sorry to have intruded here. I don't understand any of this, but it's clear I don't belong here. I'm very, _very_ sorry." She took two steps toward the door before her progress was interrupted. How terribly fast he was for someone seemingly so sickly, on the brink of death!

"Sorry," he spat into her face through the mask. "Now you're sorry. I suppose everyone is sorry when it is too late, but no one is ever sorry when there is time enough left for it to matter. Now you are sorry? Sorry for me? Be sorry for yourself instead. You'll need it more."

Even as she tried to twist herself free she considered his words. _No one is ever sorry when there is time enough left for it to matter._ For what was it too late? _Sorry for me._ Should she be? He seemed to be dying—alone. He was hideous. He was full of anger. As a matter of fact, she _had_ been sorry for him for a moment, but he had swiftly distracted her with violence, which he now repeated. Why? She would ask him if she could just get free. What terrors had he been through? Perhaps she could relieve his suffering if he would allow it. But he held her fast; she was immobilized. She struggled. She fought. She even ventured to scream a little, but he laughed in her face, a cold, hollow laugh that sounded more pained than amused.

"Do you think anyone will hear you down here?" he snarled. "Have you forgotten how far you've come, how deep below ground you are? And supposing someone did hear, what do you think they could do for you, against me? The dark sockets of his eyes glittered yellow. His teeth were menacing. She hesitated a moment her own eyes wide and staring, then slumped forward into him, feigning a faint. She waited for him to release his grip, but he was not so easily fooled, though he softened just a bit. In her limp state he pulled her slightly more gently towards the back wall. She realized the faint was a mistake, but to struggle now would reveal her deceit, which would no doubt provoke his anger all the more. She cursed herself silently for having been too confident, too sure of herself, too trusting of all humanity—if it were true he were human at all, and she was beginning to have cause to doubt it.

"Such a shame to have to do this," he said softly—almost gently, and she wondered at the sudden change in his demeanor, but she also heard a metallic clang, felt something cold touch her wrist and realized with dread that she now wore a shackle on one arm. She fought the impulse to leap to life, to scream, to pull. It would be useless now, as she were already chained, she told herself. Too late. _Everyone is sorry when it is too late._ Sorry for what? Too late for what? She remained limp in his arms as he lowered her to a soft structure—perhaps a bed or a couch—and snapped the other wrist into a manacle as well, but with amazing tenderness. How peculiar! She slumped to the floor as he released her and felt him a moment later touch her on the cheek—so gently. Her mind whirled behind her closed eyes. How to get out of this now?

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How will she get out of it? Any ideas? What would you have done differently? After all, what could one possibly do?

If you're reading this for the first time, what do you think? If you've read this before and you're reading it over (why would you do that anyway? I promise I didn't change the plot!!) did you notice anything different? Do you like the subtle changes? Or no? Review me, PLEASE!

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	12. Chapter 12: Useless & Alone

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Disclaimer: Erik is not mine (pity, actually).

Note: Updated, revised, & edited on 4/13/2008.

Question: Does anyone know why when I upload files the first sentence gets repeated twice and I have to go in and manually DELETE it? It's SUCH a pain and it does it EVERY SINGLE TIME!

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He left the parlor. Returned to his room. Hesitated between the coffin and the organ.

Death. Death was still the easy way out, but it was, apparently, slow in coming. He considered how to hasten it but discarded all options as too painful and resigned himself to wait—perhaps equally painful, but a pain he had endured long enough already and, at least in part, knew how to deal with. Back into the coffin to await death in that most appropriate place. He would die soon; he could feel it. The woman chained outside would die eventually, too if no one discovered her, and no one would. He would surely be blamed for that, but he would be dead—where no one could hurt him. It bothered him some, though. Not dying. He welcomed that. It was the death of the woman, not that she didn't deserve it, but he had not killed a woman before—at least, not recently, not in this manner, not for such a reason. As a matter of fact, he had not killed anyone—save Joseph Buquet—in a very long time. Buquet had been a necessity, to avoid discovery, for he had learned too much. He had committed the act with dexterity and finality, but it had troubled him nevertheless, for he was not truly as ruthless as perhaps some have believed. He had done only what was necessary to survive. But to kill a woman... All right, there _had_ been a woman who had died beneath the chandelier that night, and the result was not entirely unpleasant—for she had been meant to replace Madame Giry, which would have made delivering messages and being paid quite difficult—but he had not intended to kill her exactly. He had been thinking more along the lines of making her first opera experience so dreadful for her as to be her _last_. Well, he had succeeded in that anyway, injuring a large number of others along the way and entirely destroying quite a lovely chandelier as well. Yes, he certainly deserved to die, and soon he would. Yet in doing so, with the woman chained outside now, he would be responsible for yet one more death. He could comfort himself with the thought that if there was no heaven, there was no hell either. Yes, death was the easiest way out, but it was slow... so very slow... in coming.

Music. Music had once been a refuge from loneliness, the only joy that revived him after harrowing days, succored him through lonely nights—for _all_ his nights had been lonely—_so_ lonely. No love, no tenderness, not even a soul to listen to him bemoan his terrible existence. No lover. (Ha! The thought would have been amusing if he did not so desperately wish for it!) No friends. Only music for so very long. But then it seemed there had been a single chance—his one and only chance at escape—through music he would find his passageway out of his solitude! But in the end it had failed him; he was yet alone. He slumped into the seat by the organ but did not touch the keys. Of what use was music now? Instead he leaned his elbows on the edge and put his head in his hands. Of what use was life, lived entirely alone? Of what use was music, composed solely for one's self? None. There was no purpose to life if this was what life was to be. And that led him back to death, _which was so slow_. Oh, which was worse, the waiting or the isolation? Together, they were more than he could bear. Even music could not heal these wounds. And if music could not help him, of what use was anything? Was he?

Well, that at least he could answer. He was of no real use to anyone at all. He had written an opera and shared it with no one. (Well! Did sharing it with her count if she had rejected him? Besides, she had only really listened through the wall, and that wasn't quite the same as willingly sharing...) He had built an intricate maze of hidden passageways, but no one knew he had done it save a select few, one of whom had rejected him entirely and the other had had ulterior motives. He had designed a palace for a king once, and for that, upon its completion, he had been sentenced to death. He had created elaborate inventions—which had been used to commit torture. He had entertained people simply by being sickening. He had threatened the woman he loved. He had nearly killed her. Not that he cared for the world much at all, but it would be far better off without him. Perhaps, had he cared more for humanity, it would have strengthened his resolve to end his own life. As it was, he was simply sad and dejected at the organ, too distressed to create anything, too numb to cry, too lonely... Why must he always be alone? Yes, he was terrible... but he had been alone _first,_ _before _he had deserved it. He was hideous, certainly, but he could hide that away. Oh, he would hide everything of himself away for just one chance to be treated as though he were normal! Just for a moment!

At present, he was not alone entirely, though. There was this strange intruder. Of course, there was a great difference between alone and lonely. At the freak show, for example, he was never alone. There were not just spectators but other performers, the owners, employees and so forth, but it was, perhaps, the loneliest place on earth. Of course, the opera house itself could be a very lonely place as well, especially on opening night with a full house. No, one couldn't be alone on opening night, but box five was always very lonely, for no one ever entered and sat beside him, no one threaded her arm through his while she watched, no one spoke softly into his ear, her breath hot and moist against his neck during intermission, no one left on his arm, no one let him help her into the carriage to go home... Home. Could there be a place lonelier than home? It was not just the home beneath the opera house, either. His childhood home had been terribly lonely as well. After all, what could be worse than—and now! Sitting here, completely and _utterly_ alone.

Except he wasn't. Damn her, who was she and what was she doing here anyway? For once he'd actually been content to be alone. Well, not content exactly, but resigned to it, accepting of it at least, and, as though the universe had utterly conspired against him, at the moment he had resigned himself to aloneness, his privacy had suddenly been invaded by this strange creature who seemed to not quite fear him as much as the others. How strange. All this time he'd wished for some reprieve but being so constantly and completely alone, and now...

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This is one of the chapters I added some stuff to. Any thoughts? I love reviews!

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	13. Chapter 13: Tête à tête

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

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And as he sat there contemplating, an idea slowly took shape. He wasn't sure exactly why he entertained it at all, except for the fact that death was slow in coming and he felt no desire to compose. Actually, _many_ ideas took shape, some of which he instantly discarded, some he merely considered and others, he _reveled_ in...

She had asked for it, after all. She had come here. She had sought to look upon him. She had even had the audacity to pretend she saw nothing terrifying. He could proceed without guilt, therefore, as she deserved all this and more. But he wouldn't harm her. No, not just now. He might talk with her, might amuse himself a bit—but _only_ for his amusement, nothing more. This was, he resolved, merely to pass the time. When he tired of it, he would return to the coffin as he had originally planned. Then there might be some guilt, if he left her where she was, but he would deal with that when the time came, and perhaps death would come soon enough after that he wouldn't really have to feel it.

As he lifted her head she fluttered her eyes a bit, simulating waking from her faint. "Oh, no you don't," he said, almost kindly, far more kindly than he had intended, anyway, as he wrapped a bit of soft black cloth over her eyes and around the back of her head. "There, now. That's better, isn't it?"

She wondered what the right answer was. "Well, I can't see…" she said.

"Exactly. Now we shall have a nice conversation, shan't we?" He pulled a chair close, removed his mask, massaged his face and gazed upon her. She wasn't _bad_ to look at, he decided, though she looked nothing at all like Christine. Beauty comes in many forms it seems, as, perhaps, does ugliness.

"Certainly," she replied and for a moment he thought she had read his thoughts before he realized she was responding to his request for a conversation.

He studied her face carefully. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with it. He wondered why she'd been wearing a veil when she arrived, why she had acted so strangely, as though she didn't think he was terrifying.

He waited. "So?" He hadn't the vaguest idea what to talk about, to be perfectly truthful. The reality was he hadn't had much practice. Conversations with the daroga had generally consisted of the other's accusing him of many crimes and his denials or rationalizations and minimizations, depending on his mood, while conversations with Christine generally consisted of either music lessons or his frantic begging for her affection. Somehow, none of these seemed appropriate with a total stranger, though he wasn't entirely sure why. After all, Christine had been unknown at first; but he had always had the upper hand... Dialogue with Madame Giry was rare and generally confined only to the subject of her daughter's future. That, as well, was useless in this situation.

As this was the sum total of his social life over his years beneath the opera house, he was a bit at a loss. Times prior to that were too far off to be of much benefit, and even if he had remembered them well, they would have been inappropriate. Exchanges with other performers at the freak show were generally boorish. Deep discussions were avoided, perhaps to avoid the emotions everyone felt but denied. Discussions with the sultana had focused on torture—hardly proper for a chat in the parlor, even if his caller was bound and blindfolded. "So…" he waited. Surely she had a better idea how to begin than he.

"So," said she. She didn't, actually. Of course, she'd been brought up properly and taught all the appropriate courtesies when in polite company, but she wasn't sure she could call her present company "polite" in the least. She'd been well educated. She spoke at least a few words of eight languages and was fluent in three, but she couldn't think of anything to say in any of them that was appropriate to her present situation. She had studied under several physicians and assisted them in their work, but medical jargon was hardly appropriate here. She'd managed, over the years, to perfect the art of speaking to anyone of any social class with out having to condescend or put on airs. She simply shifted from one level to another effortlessly. She had, however, never encountered someone like this before. She had traveled extensively and had a variety of experiences of which many men of her country--let alone women--only dream.

Yet she had never been bound and gagged before. Bound and _blindfolded_, she corrected herself. It would have been easier had she been gagged, actually. Then she would not have been expected to speak at all. "So..." said she. What could she possibly say that she hadn't already tried? Even through the blindfold she could feel him staring at her, waiting for her to say or do _something_.

Something benign, she thought. Like the weather. Except I hardly remember what it's like outside at all now. Something benign like what I've been up to lately. Well, there's this opera house, after all... It is, perhaps, the only thing we seem to have in common.

"So, I guess I should explain how I came to be here, unless you have something else in mind," she tried carefully. He didn't respond, but she was sure he was still there. She hadn't heard him leave, and she could still feel the uncomfortable stare boring into her. She continued.

He rather enjoyed watching her struggle to determine where to direct her head since with her blindfold she couldn't be sure exactly where he was. He was almost smiling, planning to further confuse her with his ventriloquist abilities when he realized what she was saying. He'd not really been listening, but he'd caught the words "opera house" and "sale" rather close together, and there was something else, so he prompted her to repeat herself, quite forgetting to disguise where he was sitting.

She focused on him and despite her blindfold, he felt uncomfortable, as though she were actually looking at him. Nevertheless, he managed to pay attention enough this time. The opera house was to change hands _again_? And this time _she_ expected to make the purchase? And that's why she'd been exploring? If he hadn't been so disgusted with everything at that moment he'd have laughed aloud. The fools who had convinced themselves they'd run the opera house—his opera house—until now had never come down here "exploring" as she said. Idly he wondered how things might have been different if they had. Only a woman would be so foolish to come down here—and yet, it was not so foolish after all, was it? Would it have been more foolish not to? But a woman in charge of this place? Never! He could put an end to her immediately and avoid the whole uncomfortable situation. Except he wouldn't do that, would he? Did it matter? He wouldn't have to live with himself much longer anyway...

But again, he was not listening and had to make her repeat herself. They knew she was here, of course. Not just here, the opera house, but here, beneath the opera house, exploring. Well, no matter. No one had ever come here to attempt to rescue Christine, so they would not come now. But something eluded him. Something important, he sensed.

They had not known where to look for Christine! They had not looked because they had no idea where TO look. But this woman had made her intentions quite clear. Something very much like panic took hold of him as he realized that it would be only a matter of time before someone would come to look for her. Perhaps sooner than he expected, too, he thought looking at her attire. She was rather well-dressed, was possibly noble (though what noblewoman would aspire to sneak around in the dark tunnels beneath such a place as this he could not fathom). Perhaps more than just the managers would search for her. They would invade his only refuge from the world, and perhaps they would take him. If they were merciful, they would sentence him to death—ah death!—but even then, it was unlikely to be a painless death. Still worse than death would be the _shame_ in being unmasked before the entire city of Paris…


	14. Chapter 14: Escape

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

No, he had to set her free. It was just as well anyway. He didn't need the responsibility of trying to keep her anyway.

"You will leave here," he instructed her "and you will not return." She looked in the direction she thought he was—he had remembered to toy with her mind a little; the first statement came from one side and the second from the other, and all the while he was directly in front of her—and she smiled ironically as she lifted her wrists and jangled her chains.

"Of course," he replied, "I'll remove them when I choose. But when I do, you will leave immediately, and you will not return. You will abandon this nonsense regarding the acquisition of the opera house. It is not theirs to sell."

He was astounded that after all he had done, she dared to disagree. "But they believe it to be theirs, and they have legal papers to back this up." Before he could lose his temper, he realized the logic of what she was saying. "Let's say I do as you say, leave, never come back, forget it—and that would be preferable considering the treatment I've endured at your hands—what would become of this place? It will remain closed. And what will that mean for you? If you seek never to be discovered you're likely to get that, I suppose. If you're in search of something more, perhaps, it's unlikely it will ever happen once the place is boarded up for good. They talk of a curse, but I've come from abroad; they think I don't know. No Frenchman in his right mind would even consider binding himself to this place. They say the place has been under a curse since it was built…"

"Oh, it has," he replied absently. He was contemplating the meaning of her words. It wouldn't matter one way or another, as long as no one found him while he was alive… But living wouldn't be much of an option, even had he desired it, with the opera house closed permanently. After all, one couldn't very well extort money where there wasn't any, and whereas he had previously used fear instilled in audiences and performers alike, if neither of these were present, his power was gone. Yes, it was, indeed, all over. It had all ended with Christine's departure. A fitting end, he thought sardonically. And there was still the matter of Christine. She wasn't returning, that was clear—and yet a small part of him clung to the hopeless chance that perhaps she would. That was hardly possible with a closed opera house, either.

Reluctantly, he removed Elizabeth's shackles after ordering her not to remove her blindfold. He ordered her again to leave, never return, forget everything. She allowed him to lead her to the door, to put her outside with instructions that she was not to remove the blindfold until he was inside and she heard the door latched. She obeyed unerringly.

When the door closed behind her, she removed the blindfold, dropped it on the ground as she had been instructed, and moved the boat mechanically. It was not until she reached the other shore and dashed up the first flight of stairs that she burst into nervous laughter.

It was only after she was gone that he realized he should have taken her across in the boat himself, as now it was on the opposite shore. It mattered little to him, as he planned to go nowhere, but it left it available for someone else to use to cross to him. It won't matter a bit in a few more days, if there is any mercy at all left in the world, he told himself.

Not far beneath the stage Elizabeth passed a mirror and noticed a strange smile on her own face and paused for further inspection.

A smile. Strange, for "happy" certainly didn't seem the right word to describe what she felt, which was a conglomeration of emotions ranging from fear at remembering her ordeal to elation at her eventual escape with her life intact. That was a marvel in itself! She had never desired death, but she had not had much cause to appreciate life in a very long time. Now, faced with a possible unexpected end to it, life suddenly seemed a rare and exquisite blessing. Bizarre, she thought, that it took such a peculiar series of events to bring her attention to the manner in which she'd been living her life. She regarded herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair unfastened, small wisps swirling about her face and a few longer locks cascading onto her shoulders. She looked more alive than she could recall in quite some time.

Practically, she took advantage of the moment in front of the mirror to reasonably reassemble her hair and replace her hat. She made herself look as harsh and unyielding—as much like she had looked prior to her strange encounter—as possible, but the glow remained. She hoped no one would notice it.

As she made her way up to the main level, she mulled over the strangeness of what had taken place and the bizarre feelings she experienced. She blamed the strange smile on having had a scare after a dull decade of ennui. Nevertheless, she concluded that it was absolutely necessary that she let the current opera managers, as well as the gendarmes, know of the man she discovered.

But she didn't.


	15. Chapter 15: A Message

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

Elizabeth was, in a word, confused. She had come to Paris initially as a tourist on a break after a long and grueling stint working in Germany. When she'd heard of the situation involving the mysteries of the opera house, she had considered offering her services to solve them, but ultimately decided not to as no one really takes a woman seriously, especially in France. She contented herself with attending one evening and listening to the gossip. Then, upon hearing the strange "outcome" of the events of the opera and its subsequent closure, she had become more curious still and posed as a potential buyer in order to gain access to the grounds legally. She had entirely expected to find nothing, explain that she was considering the purchase more carefully and eventually decline. Having this first part of her plan result in finding something—or as the case was, some_one_—threw the rest of her strategy off track. She could not simply return to Germany or England now without first determining exactly whom it was she had found and what was his purpose there in the subterranean shadows. She put together her strange recollections: flowers, a coffin, a mask. "I will fear nothing now that you are with me" and "I am not quite dead yet, I think..." "Poor unhappy Erik," "Alas, I know too many who are horrified by me..." and finally "I suppose everyone is sorry when it is too late, but no one is ever sorry when there is time enough left for it to matter." How could she walk away now from that without knowing the meaning of all those sentiments. Whatever the strange being beneath the opera house, it was someone in dire need, and that was something from which she simply had never been able to walk away, though many faulted her for it.

Yet if she stayed, she risked having to buy an opera house! Though she was both wealthy and self-indulgent, she was not so excessively so as to make a purchase of such a large piece of real estate solely for the sake of her own inquisitiveness. With that in mind, she found herself sitting for hours on end drinking tea and staring out the window, wondering about the strange creature who dwelt in the depths—and she wondered if she hadn't dreamed the entire thing.

There was a time when Erik would have known that Elizabeth had been coming that day long in advance of when she arrived. Indeed, there was a time when he would have known she was coming even before she herself decided it. There was a time when he could have called to her, drawn her down to him--it was ironic the power he had over women when they had not seen him--the diametric opposite of what occurred when they did. Or perhaps not exactly opposite. There was power in both situations. Before they had seen him, the power to draw them in; after, the power to drive them away, or to secure any promise he might wish to extract with the threat of being close to them.

There was a time when he knew everything that went on in every corner of the opera house because he devoted all his time and energy toward that end. That time, though it had begun long before Christine, had come to a sickening conclusion with her departure. Like his life itself, it did not begin with her, but it ended with—or rather with the absence of—her. He didn't bother to chide himself for having been caught unaware by the strange female visitor. He didn't bother to focus on remembering the name of his unexpected visitor, or where she lived or why she'd come. At least, not for several days he did not. When she left, he retired back to his chamber, this time without removing the mask because it didn't make any difference to him one way or the other, but it was familiar. He slept for a long time and when he woke again (alas—_still_ alive!) his dreams had so mingled with his memory of her that he was not sure what was real and what was imagined.

A few things were certain, though. He had already sent his collection of memories of Christine to the Persian when he expected death was imminent. The Persian had published his death, as he had requested; he was somehow certain of this, though he had no proof. He was still alive, but no one knew that save the strange woman who had discovered him. Christine had not arrived to bury him. How many days had it been since the notice had been published? Shouldn't Christine be here by now? A vague nagging thought told him he'd better die quickly because otherwise when she arrived it would look like he had deceived her... and yet he wondered why she hadn't come already. Perhaps she was not going to keep that promise. Of course she will, he told himself. She loves me for myself! She went away only because I _told _her to go away. But something had changed. Even as he thought it, he could feel himself no longer believing it. And with that realization came the beginnings of letting go, though he didn't yet realize it. He didn't feel sad so much as numb. He felt hollow, like dried bone.

Time passed and he continued his pattern of neglecting self-care entirely, no longer out of depression, but out of habit. His health began to fail. If he'd possessed a mirror, he would have been able to see that he was at death's door. His eyes were more sunken than ever, and no light shone in them. Emaciation had hollowed out his cheeks making him look still more skeletal. He could not see it, but he felt it. He was weaker and weaker still, and still no Christine. Surely it had been a week since the world thought him dead. And if Christine did not return, what would become of his body after that? Having hated the physical in general and his face in particular, he told himself it didn't matter, but what small scrap of something like pride that was left in him hoped not to be discovered half-rotten by those very people who had ridiculed him so severely throughout his life that he had felt it necessary to come here in the first place. Christine was a lost hope; she had not come. He would eventually be exposed before all Paris. And in death, he could not protest, could not fight back. He would be found, stared at, discussed, perhaps even studied. A wave of nausea rolled over him. If he'd eaten anything at all, he'd have been violently ill with the thought of those people finding and examining him. He must make arrangements. The daroga, perhaps... but he could not let the other see him this way. It had been bad enough he had seen him before...

What of this stranger who had arrived suddenly and treated him kindly, perhaps even tenderly? He marveled at it. She had acted entirely as though she hadn't noticed he wasn't like everyone else! How could that be? He searched his memory. Her eyes were clear, not filmy with blindness. She moved with confidence, not groping in front of her with each step. And it was she who found his mask when thought he had looked everywhere. No, whatever she was, it wasn't blind. Perhaps there was something wrong with her as well. He searched his memory for his first glimpse of her. She'd been wearing a hat with a thin black veil. Surely that veil concealed something horrifying. But no! He had dragged her by the hair; her hat and veil had fallen off. He had chained her to the wall and seated her on the sofa. He had looked at her, and she was—well—somewhat attractive. Maybe her vision was somehow distorted... Perhaps. There had to be something wrong with her vision. She could surely see clearly enough to dispose of him, even if it meant only weighing him down and pushing his body into the lake. After all, lot of good being buried near Christine's room would be if it were by someone else, without the ring, and without her final goodbye...

And she was a foreigner. She knew no one, would not encounter Raoul, Christine, and the others. Whatever the case, she seemed his only option. It would be difficult to convince her, he considered, after the way he'd behaved. She might be angry, she might be afraid, to return... And she owed him nothing. Perhaps, he could bargain with her. He owned a few things of value, still had some money stored away. Hide the remains and take what you like. Tell no one. He'd even say it: _Please._ Perhaps this would work. But would he have to say those other dreaded words: "I'm sorry?" If necessary, he would consider it, but he would not mean it. He'd only meant it that once—when he'd spoken those words to Christine--and they had been worthless.

Resignedly, he painstakingly composed wrote six words: "Please return to the opera house." He wondered if actually making his specific request would be more effective, but he was feeling weak, and he needed to conserve his strength for the long journey to the surface and back. He'd write another letter when he returned if he had the strength. Or he'd explain if she ever got there, which was unlikely. He knew he'd acted terribly by society's standards, but it hadn't mattered at the time. Now that it did, it was too late. _Everyone is sorry when it is too late, but no one is ever sorry when there is time enough left for it to matter._ Yes, it was too late for that. Instead, he'd have to take the chance that she was curious, crazy, full of pity, or just plain stupid.

He folded the letter, sealed it, and scrawled her name outside in rough red lettering. Of course, he also had to take a chance on remembering her name. She'd tried to introduce herself, but he hadn't cared a bit at the moment. Well, there was that point at the end where he'd decided he might as well talk to her if she was there anyway, but then he had to send her away. Too dangerous to have visitors that could be looked for. And something terrible would have happened eventually. It always did.

Too weak to travel far, he managed to drag himself to the ground level and throw the letter out, as Christine had done from the carriage that night, seemingly so long ago. He mused upon the strangeness of the messenger service of the desperate. Then he staggered back to the basement recesses toward what he hoped would be his final resting place.

A second note, he thought. Details. How do you make such a request of someone you do not even know? If I am dead when you arrive, please ensure I am not found? There had to be a more eloquent manner than that, yet it required being able to think clearly. He managed to enter the house through the main door. His head felt heavy and the flowers of the parlor seemed to move like liquid. He reached out but there was nothing to grab hold of and he was tumbling forward through the blackness. He never felt the impact, though, for he was unconscious before he reached the ground.


	16. Chapter 16: Hideous

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

She stared at the strange message. It was written on a heavy card in thick red ink. The letters were strangely formed as though written by a child or an invalid. "Who could have written such a thing?" she said aloud, though she had answered the question silently even before she posed it. She had known the answer even before she opened the letter by the strange chill that ran through her body when it was first handed to her. It had only her first name on the outside, so her immediate question was how anyone could be certain it was intended for her. The explanation that she was the only lady with that first name who had recently visited the opera house on business was no explanation at all, until she opened the folded page, but even then, without having opened the letter how could the little boy who delivered it have known what the subject of the letter was? "Letters addressed in that hand always have to do with the opera house, Madame," the boy replied and then darted off. Letters in this hand, indeed, she wondered, and trembled.

Awestruck, Elizabeth contemplated the brief message. It was one of two things—either a message from the strange man she'd met, or a joke. If it were a joke, it were surely a sick and twisted one. She wondered if the opera managers were certain she would proceed with the deal and were consequently performing some strange initiation. Perhaps the mystique of the Opera Ghost were all pretense and she was being tested to see if she could continue the farce when she took over. It seemed ludicrous as the matter of the Opera Ghost seemed to be what was shutting the place down! Still she was a foreigner here, strange to their customs. Perhaps there was a bit of cultural information she was lacking. But if it were a joke, it were a strange one indeed.

If it were a true message, that could mean one of several different things. Her thoughts followed a tree-like logical diagram, forking at each "if" and branching and each of the options. If it were from _him_, it could be a trap. He had released her because he wished to avoid those who would seek to find her. Perhaps he took a chance that she might return in secret. If that were the case, he could have one of several motives, the worst of which could involve her death, her imprisonment, or some bizarre form or torture. To avoid this, she could simply take someone with her--a man, ideally, and one who was well armed at that. Alternatively, he could have other less destructive motives, and appearing with a guard of sorts would instantly put him on the defensive. Or the offensive. And if it turned out that his motives were honest, she would have a hard time accomplishing anything with an armed guard with her. But what other motives could he possibly have? She had offered kindness, rescue, conversation and finally her own absence, and none of these pleased him. If it were not a trap, it could involve curiosity, an apology, or... what? She'd been as delicate as she could when she'd seen his condition, and yet he far from appreciated it. What then could be the goal of this?

But as we had learned previously, her life had become rather uninteresting to her as of late. She had no family to speak of, nothing she wished to accomplish that she hadn't already done save one daunting goal which she was not at all certain of her ability to tackle, and an almost unlimited supply of money. She was not a fearful woman. And she had felt strangely invigorated after their last encounter. And she had always been incredibly curious. In addition, having had time to think, she had listened more carefully to the gossip around her, put ideas together, reached hypothetical conclusions. Although she did not quite realize it, despite all she had done, she still had something left to prove in her life, and subconsciously, she recognized the chance to do it. There was a irksome voice in the back of her mind that told her this was important for reasons she had yet to understand, and there was a memory of something she'd tried for forget for so long, but could not.

As she had no solid plans for the day and had already finished her tea, she donned her hat and set out at once to the opera house. If the message were a serious one from them, she reasoned, when she arrived they would greet her by saying "Ah, you've received the message." When they did not, she employed a simple but believable tale she'd concocted along the way. She told the managers that she believed she had dropped a locket of no monetary value—but to which she had a strong emotional attachment—while exploring beneath the stage. She explained that she had already searched everywhere else she'd been. This was her last hope. She acted desperate. She requested permission to retrieve it and acted as though she were in great haste. Immediately upon leaving the managers she found a man who was performing some menial task and asked him, pointing, if he would please inform the managers that she had found what she was looking for and exited that door. She moved toward the door and then, as the man stepped out of her view, she turned another direction and retraced her steps from her first visit.

The strangely written message and the chill she had felt while reading it put her in a strange mood. Last time she walked down the dark passageways she was detached, logical, clinical, even, at least, on the first level she had been, before the mystique of the depths overtook her. This time, she instead gave herself over freely to her passions and to the inscrutability of atmosphere. Having already determined that the passages were safe enough, she allowed herself to look around in wonder, to imagine what other people might imagine as they traveled this way, and for a moment, to pretend she believed in the ghost and feared him. Her pulse beat hard in her throat and her stomach fluttered like the moths around the torches.

She composed herself some by the time she reached the house, though (for she could not be sure what to expect) and this time, thinking to redeem her prior trespass, she respectfully knocked. She found herself forced to enter on her own, however, when after repeated knocks no one answered. She found herself strangely worried about the peculiar man who had been her unwelcoming host. He had not appeared in good health, then the brief message, and now no response. Her interest in science was intense, but her work with the doctors in both England and France had increased her compassion as well as her knowledge. She knew she may not be entirely safe, but she would take her chances if it meant she could help another, especially if it involved that and satisfying her curiosity at once.

She entered purposefully and strode across the room of flowers toward the room in which she had first discovered him and nearly injured herself falling over the collapsed body face down on the floor. Elizabeth felt a pulling sensation inside her chest but ignored it. Actions first, compassion later, she thought. She rolled him over. His face was covered with a hard black mask. She peered through the eyeholes; his eyes were closed. She leaned close to him. He was breathing shallowly and restricted somewhat by the contraption over his face. She looked about almost frantically for a moment, then, with decision, she grasped him by both wrists and dragged his body across the floor toward the room with the mahogany bed.

The bed itself proposed some problems; Elizabeth was not accustomed to lifting in excess of her own weight. After turning down the bed, she half lifted and half shoved the body onto it, thinking as she did so that this was a most absurd situation in which she had ever found herself; it surpassed even her last visit here. She smiled at the thought of how ridiculous she must look, then pulled up the blankets and, in a motherly fashion, tucked them around the frail body. This action seemed strangely appropriate as though this were something she should have been doing for years. She sighed wistfully, and though she didn't realize it yet, from that moment, she was interminably bound to him in her own heart.

Getting him off the floor and onto the bed, as troublesome as it had been, was actually the easy part. What remained to be done was more complicated. She felt sure that she could not send for an actual doctor. No one knew she was here. She had specifically indicated that she was _leaving_. Now she would be trespassing. While she would certainly risk that to save a human life, that seemed not to be an option either. She had no knowledge of why the man was here, what he was hiding from and why. His appearance was an obvious choice, but only a guess, and perhaps only one of many reasons why he was in hiding. There were, after all, all the stories of hauntings and murders. Even if he were entirely innocent, a mob could easily blame him and act on that blame. She'd seen crowds turn murderous before, and she'd seen innocents killed. As she couldn't be sure that he would be treated kindly if she sent for a doctor, she couldn't very well send for anyone at all. That left taking care of him herself with no equipment and very little information.

She managed to locate a pantry, but there was nothing edible left. There was a jug of soured milk and another of water that, while not putrid was certainly beginning to stagnate. The only substance for drinking that was not spoiled was wine, which was hardly hydrating. She cast about hopelessly for a few moments then found a pot and boiled the water. Beyond the rotting fruits and vegetables that lay out she found a cellar of sorts containing potatoes. After much sorting, she found a few that weren't growing. She separated the water into two pots, one for cooking and one for drinking, and poured hot water into two cups. She searched the cabinets but found them empty. So much for tea, she told herself and bustled back to the bedroom.

Her patient was lying as she had left him, eyes closed beneath the mask.

"Hideous thing" she said remarked pulling the mask off. She held it in front of her, studied it, then the face, then the mask again. Finally, she cast the mask away. She set her teacups down and dragged a chair from the parlor of flowers to the room with the bed. Then she sat down, took the hand of the distorted figure on the bed, and waited.


	17. Chapter 17: Confusion

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

It was not long very before he opened his eyes to find the woman staring patiently but resolutely at him. She allowed him a gentle moment while she assured herself that he was coherent and not in distress. Then she demanded he tell her the alternate route in and out of the opera cellar for she was not a silly girl who might fall for believing just anything. It was obvious from a perusal of his abode that he had been here a while, and it was incomprehensible to think that he had been coming and going by the same path she had, which required traveling through very public areas, which, during the time the opera house was open were very crowded and now, while it was closed, were always locked. She warned him not to bother with deceit for there wasn't time to play games. She needed to know the best route to go above for supplies and back without being seen, and she needed this information immediately. Her tone was at once commanding yet kind; he had never encountered such a woman before and was unsure of himself in her presence, so he simply told her at once in a weak whisper. With that she relaxed noticeably and implored him to drink his tea. He tried to tell her no, that he intended to simply die, that all he asked of her was that she find a way to dispose of his remains so he wouldn't be found, but he was too exhausted to speak more after having described the route, and besides, she was so stern it occurred to him that she would have rebuked him and ignored his request.

Tea, she insisted. As wasted as he had become, he didn't notice she had provided only heated water, and by the time he was restored enough to notice, she had brought below supplies to last the two of them the week.

Above strange stories abounded. The British lady who had come to inquire about the opera house had suddenly vanished. She had been paying for her room at the inn by the week, and so no one noticed her absence until the week ended and payment was not made for the following week. The manager had called to inquire whether she intended to stay longer and had waited at the door without response. He tried this multiple times that day, at varying intervals before calling the authorities whereupon they opened the door and discovered her absence. Her belongings were still there, however, which left out her sneaking out to avoid the bill. Gossip spreads quickly, especially mysterious gossip, and so when she was not found by nightfall, everyone within fifteen blocks was talking of it, including the parents of the boy who had delivered the mysterious message. Once he confessed it, stories began to circulate about the ghost. Abduction was on the lips of everyone. Concerned citizens reported that they had seen the lady in the presence of a strange figure clad in black. Others reported that she had been acting strangely, and still more said they had heard her wailing in agony when they past the inn. Naturally, none of this was realistic, as Elizabeth had already been missing when the wails were allegedly heard. Before her absence had been discovered, she had already spent an entire week beneath the opera house insisting that the once dreaded creature of the night fortify himself by drinking milk and eating a variety of fruits she'd purchased at the market. It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world to care for another. To him it was perhaps the most bizarre experience he could recall.

He stared at her when he was certain she wasn't watching. She had become comfortable in the house and often went about from room to room without her hat or veil. He confirmed that she was not, as he had momentarily suspected, disfigured in any way. That had been his first thought after blindness, and a logical one at that. The combination of her wearing a veil and acting slightly less horrified than others had at his appearance left him wondering if his memory that she had been not bad to look at was an illusion, an hallucination brought on by starvation, or depression, or both.

But it wasn't. She appeared quite normal. She was, as a matter of fact, rather pretty. She was certainly not a radiant young beauty, but there was nothing ugly about her. Once or twice, he had even seen her with her hair down, a sight that captivated him and enticed him, as he had always had an affinity for long _black_ tresses—not that it had ever mattered what he liked to look at, since no one was apt to allow him any kindness regardless—until he met Christine.

He watched her eyes carefully when she looked at him. She neither averted her eyes nor stared directly at his deformities. She had an uncanny ability to meet his eyes directly and maintain eye contact throughout the duration of a conversation. When she was not looking directly into his eyes, she was generally working on something, her full attention to whatever it was. If he spoke to her at that moment, she would turn her head and shift her eyes to directly meet his. He didn't know what to make of this, as most people usually turned away in disgust and those who did not stared unabashedly at the hole where his nose should have been or at his twisted lipless mouth as though they intended to later sketch the deformities in intricate detail from memory. He had never been able to determine which of these two was worse, but now, as she met his eyes directly every time, he cowered inside as it seemed she could see directly into his soul, and he longed for her to turn away in horror, or to stare in revulsion _just once_, just for the _familiarity_ of it.

When she spoke to him she used one of two tones. There was a tone of urgency—the one that she had used when she insisted he reveal to her the secret passageway to the outside. Alternately, there was what he could only name "the other tone." Her words were gently spoken, but without patronization and without pity. He imagined this might be the tone that "normal" people used when they spoke to one another. It was distinctly different from the tones Christine had used. She'd had three: one that was angry, one that was fearful, and one that was full of pity. He tried to review the tones he'd heard from others over the years. The majority of people he encountered over his lifetime used a strained tone that was somewhere between fear and revulsion. Others, who knew him better—like the Persian—had more than one tone, but they were the same as Christine's.

Perhaps most unusual of all was allowing someone else to meet his needs for him, which is exactly what she did. It was not just something that had not happened in a long time; it was something he could not remember happening at all. Even in childhood, he'd needed to fend for himself as his mother could not bear the sight of him. During this week, he scarcely left the bed at all as she brought him meals at all the appropriate times. Something told him that anyone else would have enjoyed the care and concern, but it made him nervous, for it was entirely unfamiliar. From time to time he would doze and then wake and find her sitting nearby reading from a book. Though he was careful not to make a sound at these times, she would somehow sense that he had awakened, look up, meet his eyes, and smile. Then she would reach out and touch him with the front and then the back of her hand first on the cheek, then the neck, then the forehead. The first time she attempted this he recoiled from her as though he anticipated abuse. She made a soft sound, a gesture, and he was seemingly under a spell. He relaxed under her hand and looked up at her. He saw tears gather at rims of her eyes and a solitary drop spill over and glide down one cheek. He wondered at this strange dark-clad woman who could weep without a sound.

There were questions he longed to ask but did not dare, thoughts he dared not entertain because they were too much a part of the world which had rejected him, dreams he wished to share with someone after all these long years, but fears prevented him. And so he remained pensive, pondering the peculiarity of this enigmatic woman who both enchanted and terrified him.


	18. Chapter 18: Someone like you

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

He recalled, vaguely, that he had positively determined to die, and day by day as he felt his strength return to him, he knew this was at odds with his intentions, yet he could not argue with her. He remembered, too, his pain and his loss. He could not forget them; but they were overshadowed by this strange new confusion, this wonder at what it was that was occurring before his eyes as this stranger took over his home entirely. This newfound curiosity made it difficult to take steps toward death, for once death came, nothing would be revealed, and so, though he did not actively decide to choose to live, he mentally postponed his own death, allowing for the possibility that perhaps something interesting would happen between now and then.

At length, it was clear that he was entirely able to care for himself again. He no longer slept through the day, no longer had trouble keeping down his meals, no longer broke into cold sweats for what seemed to be no reason, no longer hallucinated. He was not yet quite his former self, but her constant hovering was obviously no longer necessary.

Neither of the parties wished to acknowledge this, however, as they had fallen into a routine of interdependence. She provided for him, and this caring for another had the effect of sustaining her, making her feel purposeful and needed. There would come a time when they could no longer deny that she was no longer needed and then she would have to leave. Strange as it may sound to the reader, both felt something like dread when they considered it, though neither had gone so far as to examine why.

At the moment, he was sleeping peacefully for the first time since she'd arrived. Prior to this, he'd been plagued by nightmares, crying out in his sleep until she woke him, then looking about with a disturbed expression as though surrounded by horrors. She'd spoken to him, asked him what he saw, but he could not reply and would go from horrified wakefulness to terrible sleep again in a seemingly endless cycle. She had lost track of how long it had been since she'd slept the equivalent of a full night, but somehow she managed. She took advantage of his apparently improvement and his having fallen asleep to take care of some personal business.

She returned to the surface via the secret passageway he had shown her. She paid her rent for the week she had been below and was surprised that her belongings had been taken into police custody. She told the police and the manager of the inn that she had gone to visit some friends in the countryside and had stayed longer than expected. She offered no response when told that people had feared for her safety. She purchased supplies in small quantities from a variety of shops to avoid attracting additional attention. She recovered her belongings from the police and explained to the innkeeper that her schedule was rather erratic, that she needed to visit a doctor friend in another city, that she might be away, but that she would like to keep her room at the inn as her home in Paris. She paid for a month up front and thereby silenced him. She then returned feeling as though for the first time in a very long time she had meaning and purpose.

What she found when she arrived rather surprised her. A number of items were broken—smashed to pieces in the living room area. The door to the room that Elizabeth thought of as a mortuary was closed and locked and tremendous music came from inside. She sighed and turned away. She put away what she had brought then fell to picking up the broken items. She was just finishing when the music stopped, so she laid the pieces on the table and crossed to the door and knocked.

He appeared quite surprised. Without letting him speak first she said, "What happened in the parlor?" Then she seized him by the hand, led him to the pieces, pointed and repeated, "What happened?"

"Oh," he moaned, "don't make me tell you. You wouldn't want to hear it." He turned away. Yes, he was surely back to—well—how she'd found him the first time, anyway. In these few interactions she had noticed a pattern. He made statements in the negative then exited abruptly. Occasionally he returned to add another point, but not always. He seemed to expect her to stay put wherever she was when he made his exit. He didn't seem to have any consideration for the possibility that she might have a response (or something else to do besides sit and wait for him to stop brooding). He never expected anyone to argue back, and he certainly didn't expect anyone to follow or try to stop him. Yes, indeed, he was well enough to be up and about, that was for sure. But he was far from healthy, that was clear, though his present ailment seemed more a mental disorder than the effects of starvation or whatever unfortunate event had resulted in his disfiguration. Yes, she could certainly leave now and know that he was not going to die within the week. She could leave with a clear conscience if she wished, but the reality was that there was far more to do here, if he'd allow it.

She pursued him. She grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. She put one hand on her hip and with the other she wagged a finger at him and scolded him like a child. She did not threaten to leave, but she pointed out that probably any other person would after this. She reminded him that when she arrived the first time she apologized and offered to leave. She noted that he had invited her back. And how had she behaved? Well, she'd done as he'd asked—done more than most people in the world would have done, and this is how he acts in response?

Entirely bewildered—he'd never been scolded by a woman before!—he didn't react; so she advanced on him until she backed him to the sofa, into which he stumbled and sat abruptly. She sat as well, but forward on the front of her seat, leaning towards him to make her point.

"You think you can just turn me away, wave away my questions, ignore my thoughts? Do you think I am afraid to question you? Do you think that I have any reason at all to be afraid? If I were, would I have come here at all? After what you tried last time I came here? The only reason I came at all is I suspected you were in some danger—"okay, so that part wasn't exactly true. There was also the matter of her curiosity. And that exhilarating feeling she'd had when it felt she had narrowly escaped something terrible, but it wouldn't do for him to know that!—"and now this? Why am I here at all? I should expect an answer to that someday, though I know you won't give it me now.

"You think you're so hideous, don't you, that all you have to do to make people obey you is threaten to put your ugly face near them and they'll cower away, commit to anything, lose all force of will? Well not me, my friend, not me. I have seen things far uglier than you in my life, and I will not allow myself to be frightened by someone who has to purposely put distance between himself and others rather than admit his secret fear that the whole world would distance itself from him if he attempted to embrace it! Do you understand me? I will not allow you to frighten me!"

But the last two sentences were unnecessary. She had already gotten through to him and she watched his features distort further still into a grimace of sorts while the tears gathered in the deep hollows of his eyes. "How could you know?" he whispered.

His bony hands rested limply on his knees, knobby, emaciated hands on knobby emaciated knees. She put hers over his. Instead of an answer she said, "I know what happened here. You're not so mysterious as you would have me believe. You will pretend that you don't care about anything or anyone, but the truth is you do. You enjoyed having someone here, even if you pretended to be annoyed. And when I was detained above, you thought I had left without saying goodbye, and you smashed things to pieces in your rage, and then, when there was nothing left to break, you went in there to take it out on your organ."

He knew that she was right, but what of that? What else was he to do? She may have put the pieces together, but she could never understand. After all, what suffering had she ever had to endure? Oh, it was obvious that she was wealthy, there was a gold ring on her hand, so it was unlikely she was unloved, and she probably had family and friends, too. She had traveled, seemed to have purpose— and it was here that he stopped. What was she doing here? It defied logic. Exploring the opera house, maybe. Receiving his message and attempting to save his life, perhaps... but staying a week... returning with the obvious intention to stay another... These things made no sense, and he needed to know. It was, however, easier by far to pretend to remain detached, to use sarcasm and offensiveness to weaken her defenses. And so instead of asking "Why are you here" he said "Someone like you could never understand."

"Someone like me?" She wasn't angry the first time she said it. "Someone like me." She was mystified. "What do you know _about_ me? You don't know the first thing about 'someone like me.'" Yes, she was angry now, now that she thought about what he meant. But then, what was her purpose here? Did she have intent? If she hadn't when she arrived, that had changed somewhat. It would be easy to stand up, walk away, leave forever, make a point. But hadn't the rest of the world already made that point, and ineffectively at that? Besides, what else had she to do at this moment? And there was that point she had to prove and the fact that he _so_ reminded her of someone else, not in appearance exactly, and certainly not in attitude, but nevertheless, he reminded her...

She took a deep breath, composed herself. Put her anger aside. "If we're going to discuss this, I think we should have some tea."

They sat at opposite ends of the table, the silver tea tray between them laid out with biscuits. His mind wandered. Here he was sitting across from a woman at a table, and he hadn't coerced her at all. As a matter of fact, he felt more as though he had been coerced himself. After all, he didn't even want to be alive, let alone entertaining. Yet had he not decided to give up on life, this was, as a matter of fact, something he would have desperately wanted. A normal life. She was sitting across from him. She wasn't smiling at the moment, no, and that was his fault, but it wasn't because he'd chained her or hurt her, and it wasn't simply because she was looking at him. _Was_ she looking at him? His hands strayed to his face. Indeed. She was looking _at him_. Unmasked. He tried to pretend he was someone normal—someone attractive even—having tea with a lady friend. It was too awkward, too fantastic to even imagine. He felt nervous inside as though his stomach were full of sickly moths.

She poured the tea. Watched his lipless mouth sip awkwardly. Waited for him to set his cup down. Began. "Tell me," she said, "what you mean by 'someone like me'?"

He already felt bad for having said it. He'd noticed something else strange about her. She had raised her voice slightly and chided him like a child. But she hadn't screamed and stormed about. She hadn't called him terrible names. She hadn't done anything any of the other women had done. She hadn't accused him of anything that wasn't true. In fact, she'd called his bluff a little too honestly for comfort. She hadn't run away. She was still looking him directly in the eye. And even her remark about his appearance—though somewhat cruel on the surface—reinforced she didn't find him _that_ repulsive. She had seen things far uglier than him? Lord, _what had she seen?_ he wondered. It occurred to him that he couldn't possibly understand her, though he'd just accused her of not understanding him. And now he was expected to offer an explanation. For a moment it occurred to him that wanting a normal life had been far too extravagant a wish. He wanted a normal appearance, yes. But if a normal life meant having conversations like this one, perhaps he'd sooner pass. Yet he'd already gotten himself into the situation, so he might as well try it out. He could always get angry and drive her away later if he needed to (though he had also begun to doubt his ability to do this. What was happening to him?).

"You," he began, trying desperately to be polite, "seem like a nice, normal person. If I had a mirror, which I don't—I abhor them—I would offer it to you so you could consider your own appearance as I tell you. You have a face that looks the way it should. You have... two lips, perfectly formed, arched on top where they should be, full on the bottom... soft skin..." he could imagine his fingers touching her lips, touching the skin of her cheek, but he would not make such a bold move ever again. He knew too well the pain of rejection and would never risk it again.

"Your... eyes..." he began again. He stared at her. They were two perfect almond-shaped features with a point of light inside each, soft brown irises, pupils large by the light of the oil lamp on the table... "Your nose..." he reached out a hand, though far from her face, and traced it's shape. It was not just that it was there, but it was small and delicate, white-skinned and dainty, perfectly symmetrical, lightly powered as ladies noses often are... he traced in the air the line from her eyes to her nose, then to her lips. He wondered if he could sculpt her as he had done Christine, then was horrified that he had allowed the thought to enter his mind and tried to resume talking as though he had not been so lost in his thoughts.

"There is nothing about you that other people will find repulsive. I daresay many men"—he would not admit that he counted himself in that number—"would find you attractive. You are a part of the world. It accepts you. You—" he put down his teacup to lift her left hand, caress it, twist her golden ring between his thumb and forefinger "have a husband. Honest love has come to you. You have not been alone all these long years." His voice broke. "I did not mean to be unkind, but someone who has not suffered cannot possibly understand—" he paused to collect himself "what it has been like... to suffer." He glanced down and noticed he was holding her hand. He hadn't meant to do that. He let go, pulled his own hand away quickly, looked back at her eyes for a reaction.

You think I haven't suffered? she could almost hear herself ask. How could you possibly know anything of anyone else's suffering, you pompous, self-centered egotistical bastard? How could you know anything of anyone else at all? And indeed, how could he? Had he spent his entire life in self-pity never imagining that there were others with feelings too? That perhaps it was just as hard—no, harder—to have problems inside that did not reflect on the outside? That perhaps at least he could hide behind his deformity and blame it for his cruelty, his arrogance, his lack of empathy, while the rest of humanity had no excuse and had to meet higher standards?

Have you even considered that others have feelings? she wanted to ask him. No, of course not. All humanity deserves to be hated as punishment for what has been done to you.

But she didn't say it. She put a biscuit in her mouth whole to keep herself from saying a word until she had come up with something less hateful. She forced herself to think while she chewed. She drummed her nails on her teacup to release her frustration. Finally, she washed the biscuit down with another small sip of tea and she began.


	19. Chapter 19: Jacob

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

* * *

They sat at opposite ends of the table, the silver tea tray between them laid out with biscuits

"It is true I didn't want for much in my childhood. My parents were wealthy, gave me all I desired. When I wasn't attending school, I had many playthings and was permitted to spend my time as I wished with my sisters. We have a brother as well, though he had been sent away to school for a time and was not a part of the regular household.

"It is also true that I did not have trouble finding a husband. I was courted by a number of suitors. My father discussed the matter with me. He stated that he felt I should have some choice, as I would spend the rest of my life with the man. He also pointed out his right as my father, to make the choice for me. He was a kind man and did not want to force either my sisters or me to marry anyone we did not prefer. So Father narrowed my choices carefully to those he thought the best matches in terms of family. He selected three, and of those three he asked me which I preferred. I was quite delighted as one of the three my father had chosen was my favorite, a man I felt I could love. He was tall and handsome. He was from a good family. They had much wealth, and he had no brothers. Whoever became his wife would be well provided for. He was well educated, had an occupation, though he did not actually need to work—Father didn't like idle men—and was prepared by build me a home in the country, for his parents would continue to live in the family estate, and we wanted a private place for ourselves. I wanted very much to be his wife. He wanted children. He told me I was beautiful and he hoped that our children would look like me. I was shy and not quite as lovely as my sisters. I told him he was too kind; I hoped our children would have his strong brow and his eyes. We were to be very happy together—_What_?"

She paused because she sensed the Erik could not contain himself.

"This is what I mean! How can you make me listen to this? How can you parade your glory before... this? How can you even be here? How can you even bear to _look at me_ when you have your handsome lover to whom you can return?"

Elizabeth turned a paler shade of white. "I shall get to the tragic part straight away if it pains you to hear the joyful portion. I thought to set the scene for you so that you might understand... but I shall tell you all at once. I have no "handsome lover" to look at now as my husband killed himself nearly fifteen years ago!"

Now it was Erik's turn to lose color. He closed his eyes. "Forgive me," he muttered. But as he considered it, he became enraged. He fought to say the words nicely, and still they came out cruel. "What could he possibly have had to die for? How bad could his life possibly have been? What—"

She touched his hand. Her hands were warm despite the cold of the basement. He felt her warmth flow into his cold bony fingers, and he slowly pulled away. "But listen," she whispered.

"My husband killed himself after the death of our young son, our firstborn. Our only." She paused sensing another reaction. She raised her eyebrows and waited. Her companion restrained himself.

"We had so wanted children. We were so joyful while we waited. We planned and prepared. We bought a bassinette and I knitted special blankets and we acquired playthings and discussed names. I hoped for a boy, to name him after my husband. I was very careful. I had a good midwife. I did everything I was told. When the time finally came, I was delighted, despite the pain. The pain was—well, it was excruciating, but it would be worth it, I knew. My husband stayed beside me the whole time—not like some men; some women I knew, their husbands couldn't handle it, but mine stayed with me the whole time. He held my hand, he looked into my eyes, he held me through the pain, and never let go my hand."

She sensed his grief at hearing something he believed he could never have, yet wanted. She hated to cause anyone pain, least of all someone who had apparently already endured so much, yet she knew that if he were to understand even the smallest portion of her, he needed the details.

"And when at last it was over the midwife was silent and I felt that something was wrong. I was so tired I could scarcely even speak. I held out my arms, asked for my child... Nothing happened. And then I panicked. I don't know where I found the strength. I lifted myself up and cried out. I asked if my child was dead, for I couldn't think of anything worse than having born a child that was not alive."

She paused and took a deep breath. The story was painful, but it was old. She had told it before, thought about it before, even written it down. She'd told it again and again because each time she told it, it seemed to ache a little less, though it never went away entirely.

Her companion had adopted an emotionless stare. Although he didn't let it show, he experienced a sick dread as he anticipated what she might say next. He had the sensation of being drawn backward down a long tunnel without warning. He knew what he was about to hear was something about which he had often wondered, even pained to know, and now that he was about to hear, he desperately wanted to take back all his former prayers and wishes. His stomach threatened to betray his feelings—and the tea and biscuits—as she continued.

"'He's alive,' the midwife told me. My joy doubled, though there had been no joy in her voice when she said it. The child was alive and I had a son as I had wished! A laugh like a sob escaped me. The midwife didn't even smile. She handed him to me. I don't know for certain what every mother does when she holds her child for the first time, but I have heard it said that an instinct drives us to inspect them carefully, to count all the ten fingers and toes, to study their perfect little hands and their perfect little feet, to stare in awe of the small life we've created, to find them perfect in every way. And I looked at him..." She looked downward now, as though she were looking at the child at that moment.

Erik looked down, too, and noticed his own fists were clenched. He looked across the table at the woman seated there. This woman, he thought, cannot possibly be my mother. She is my age, perhaps even younger. This cannot be she. And he remembered the woman who drew herself away from him, ran from him when he attempted to show affection, tossing the mask behind her to him, and he trembled imperceptibly. He looked at Elizabeth. No. It was not she. It could not be she. They looked most dissimilar. Yet the sick feeling was still there. This was too close to the bone.

"You know, I didn't even notice it at first?" she continued. "Oh, I was so wrapped up in the size of him and the miracle of him that I didn't notice what was right there in front of me. My husband noticed it right off. I heard his breathing change, I felt his presence beside me stiffen, and then I heard him ask what happened to the midwife. There was a terrible silence while everyone searched for something to say, something to point to, someone to blame... He was... it was terrible. They tried to take him from me, but I forbid it. I vanquished them from the room, refused to allow them to touch him. And when they were gone, I forced myself to stare at him long and hard. I memorized his peculiar features. I told myself that it didn't matter because he was my son. I felt alarm but I fought it down. I told myself I could handle this. I remembered reading Dostoevsky's _House of the Dead_. He said that _man is a creature that can get accustomed to anything_. I myself doubt that man can, actually, but perhaps woman can. I would get accustomed to this or die trying. So as my child slept in my arms, I studied his face carefully. I memorized every feature. I made up my mind to call his appearance normal and to force myself to look upon him as any other mother looks upon her son."

Erik put his palms upon the table and turned away, trembling. "Not _any_ mother" he growled softly.

"Would you rather not hear this now? You've scarcely touched your tea. I fear it's gotten cold, hasn't it? Let me take care of that for you." And in seemingly one motion she was on her feet, had swept away the chilled teacup and replaced it with another. He tried to thank her, but no sound came from this throat. She touched his hand. "You don't want to know the rest," she said simply. "It's okay." And she drew her hand away again.

He managed to speak "Go on," however, and she did.

"I named him Jacob. And no, that's not my husband's name. My husband is John. I had always planned to name my first son after his father, but my husband was uncomfortable with that once he saw our son. Not that is wasn't a good man; he was! But he just was not comfortable with that. I named him Jacob because I remembered that name from the Bible. Jacob was the one who saw the angels on the ladder and later struggled with an angel that held him down. I expected that my son would struggle, but I gave him a strong name, and I believed he would prevail.

"He grew, as any child does. He responded when I spoke to him. He grasped my finger in his hand. Eventually he began to crawl and then to walk. He began talking before he reached the age of two years. We went for walks together outside. He would point at things and I would name them. I loved him, and he loved me." She sighed.

Erik could not resist, and he could not keep the contempt from his voice. "Did you make him a mask?"

Elizabeth looked horrified. "Heavens, no! Whatever for? Oh. Yes, that. No. I know that such things are sometimes done in such cases, yes... But I never quite could see the point. Does a mask really hide anything at all? If one sees someone in a mask, one can instantly ascertain the reason for it, as people do not generally go about in masks daily. They still turn away, or they still stare, so what's the point? Whom would it protect? My son? Or those who look? I had no responsibility to protect _them_. No, I looked upon him as normal, and I—I guess that is my fault—I may have honestly believed—I naively believed that it was possible that _others could do the same_. But I was wrong."

"What happened?"

"Well, nothing. Or rather, many things. First of all, my husband blamed me. He began to suspect first that I had committed some terrible sin during the time before Jacob was born, then that Jacob was not his son at all. He accused me of witchcraft, of having laid with a demon, of being inhuman myself. He never said a word where Jacob could hear, but he never held him either. I wanted to hate him, but I could not for whenever I looked at him I saw not only my beloved whom I had chosen and married, but also the father of my precious son. You say I have not suffered, but I tell you I suffered during that time more than you can possibly know. I couldn't even imagine at that time that things could get worse, but they did. Things got much worse when Jacob died."

There was a long silence.

"I don't know what ailment killed him. He seemed a perfectly normal child to me, but then, as his mother, I have a bias. I can say that he didn't fall ill, he didn't get injured, that I saw no warning signs of any kind. I simply entered his room one morning—for he had his own room because John could not sleep with Jacob in our room—and found him still in his bed, not breathing. It was nearly five years since he was born, and we'd been through so many wonderful things together, and then he was gone.

"I can't speak for what every mother feels, but I know that at that moment, I felt as though the life had gone out of me. I rushed to find a doctor, but it was far too late. His body was stiff and cold. The people at the church had not outright shunned us, but they had not been kind either, so I made John bury Jacob on our own property. It was better this way, as I wanted him close to me.

"Now, the ladies of our town tried to console me by telling me perhaps it was all for the best. I know they meant well. Perhaps they meant that his life would have been hard and this way he wouldn't suffer, but I took it hard. I felt like they were saying a child that looked like him didn't deserve to live, and I vanquished them all and sat alone in my sorrow. John trudged through life with an invisible burden upon his back. I could tell he was relieved. He was relieved that our son was dead, that he didn't have to be the father of _that_. But I could also sense a deep guilt in him for feeling this way. Perhaps he was sorry he hadn't been a very kind father, or perhaps he felt guilty for my sake. I never did get to ask him because a few weeks later I found him dead where he had hanged himself. They couldn't bury him in the churchyard because it was suicide, so I paid the gardener. He dug the grave for me, I buried him beside our son. It gave me nightmares, though... I often worried that John would reproach me for having lain them so close beside one another when they had not been close in life, and I lost touch with reality. I saw things that I know could not have been there...

"As I told you, we had moved to the country to allow his parents their privacy at the estate—and to have ours away from them. Country people though, are often superstitious. I used to often wonder how life might have been different if we'd remained near to home or if we'd settled in London where people are educated and reasonable. Instead, I watched as my little country village that had been my respite from the world turned into my own private hell.

"People in the town began to look at me as though I were cursed. If my poor twisted son didn't convince them, my husband's taking of his own life did. People crossed the street when I passed. No one came to call. I felt unwelcome in the church. People whispered behind their hands. Do you still think I don't know your pain? I know suffering. I know isolation. I became hysterical. I literally went completely out of my mind. I found myself wandering about at night, sitting in our small two-grave cemetery telling my son stories. I slept most of the day, I talked to no one but the dead. I ceased writing letters to my family—we lived far from my family as well—they actually lived nearer to his family, as we were from the same area—and I had never even told them of Jacob's appearance. My husband's income from his business stopped, but I still had access to his family money, and I could easily survive on that. My brother had invested my portion of my inheritance for me, and I had my husband's savings at my disposal. Yet I did nothing with the money. I didn't eat, didn't change my clothes, scarcely even washed my face for days at a time. I slept almost continually save a few hours I would wake and wander about outside. There was a small sane part of my mind that kept telling me I was sick, I was in danger, I needed to do something, but I couldn't even care."

Erik was noticing that this part of her story sounded rather familiar to him and he wondered if she was embellishing. Did he think she wouldn't notice? Was it actually possible she had done the same thing?

"I don't know how bad I must have looked—I covered all the mirrors in the house after my husband's death and never removed the sheets from them—but I'm sure it was dreadful. People from the village came in the night. They set fire to my house. The only reason I survived it at all was that I was laying atop my son's grave crying at the time. I saw the orange glow, turned my face to look and saw the flames leaping. I heard the voices, saw their faces in the torchlight. I hid in our cemetery until I had the chance to run and then I did. I ran all through the night and when I came to a town I found a carriage and took it as far as I could. Don't ask me how I paid for that carriage. I had to travel all the way to my hometown before I could get my inheritance from my brother."

She'd _covered all the mirrors_? It was too much... And how had she paid for that carriage? He could think of only one way a woman might manage it without currency, and it was a terrible thought. Though he'd once considered that taking advantage of such trafficking might be his only chance to know the pleasures of the flesh, the contemplation of what it signified had so revolted him he knew it would have been impossible to gain any pleasure from it. In this way he also avoided the possibility that women who generally rejected no one might also reject him...

"I suppose the shock of the burning of my house may have brought me to my senses because by the time I reached my brother's home, I was able to fabricate a story that my husband and young son had died in a terrible accident. I told my brother I could not bear to live in the town where we had lived together, that I wished to leave the country and travel. My brother made the account accessible to me and agreed to continue to maintain it for me. I withdrew a large sum and left my hometown late one night by carriage, then by train, then by carriage again, hurriedly, lest the news of what had really happened reach my brother before I escaped. I traveled to a place of which I had never heard before with the thought that if I had not heard of them, they surely could not have heard of me. I made passage from England to France shortly thereafter, then traveled through Bulgaria into Germany, where I settled, temporarily, I thought. But as soon as I stopped running, I realized I wasn't well. I still couldn't force myself to remain awake in the days, still didn't sleep at night. I would wake with a start around midnight and go out wandering, but there were no graves to visit, no one to talk to, and I would find myself growing more and more hysterical. Eventually, I let a kindly neighbor take me to a sanitorium where I remained for an untold amount of time."

Erik regarded the woman across the table from him. She's insane, he thought. It made perfect sense, actually. Who else would have been fearless enough to prowl around beneath the opera house? Who else would have dared provoke his anger and continue to unabashedly question him? Who else but an insane person would have responded to his strange message? Who indeed, else but the insane would sit across the table from him drinking tea and treating him like he was normal? He felt a sense of regret. He had actually, despite his discomfort at being stared at while unmasked, experienced what he perceived was normalcy for just a moment. Tea with a friend, a conversation, albeit a sad one... Only to learn that his first glimpse of normalcy was, well, not. Of course she was insane. Who else would come here, find him dying and bother to stop it from happening? Who else could look at him, day in and day out for a week—or was it two?—and not go insane? Only one who _already had_. The thought of her bringing first tea then soup to him caused him to shudder. A crazy woman had been caring for him when he was at the weakest he'd ever been in life. He remembered that there were those who thought he was crazy, and he did not appreciate the irony of his own fear. He struggled. She was staring at him, eyebrows arched slightly, small wrinkles forming at the edges of her eyes and mouth.

"What's the matter now?" The lunacy of the question sent him reeling, but so did the fact that she'd asked it. How could she possibly tell something was the matter? And how could he possibly respond?

"Relax," she told him. "That was nearly fifteen years ago."

As if time had anything to do with anything, he thought. It was nearly fifty years ago his mother first rejected him and time hadn't changed a thing. But he could not very well say this now.

"I admit," she said "it was a terrible experience. There were people in there far crazier than I. Can you imagine being surrounded by the dregs of society, people that other people lock up so they won't have to deal with their very existence, people who are more like animals than people at all?"

He didn't have to imagine it. He'd been there, after all.

"There was a young doctor there who realized that I could return to myself. He took extra time and care with me. He brought me out of that dark hell. He made me live again. He wanted to take me away and marry me, but I told him that I would never marry again, that love was what had done this to me in the first place and I wouldn't risk it again. He took it well, actually. He replied, "Ah, you're crazy yet," and offered me a position as his assistant then, instead of his wife. That offer I readily accepted, for in my time in that place, I had encountered a variety of diseases of the mind as well as the body, and I had become dreadfully curious to know what could be done to prevent and cure them.

He has his own sanitorium now, and I've worked there from time to time, but one problem that's remained for me is a fear of staying in one place. Though I am not perpetually running away, I haven't really stopped running altogether. I don't travel constantly, but I don't commit to a place permanently, either. I don't bother to get to know people too well unless there is a reason to. Over the past ten years, I've officially lived in Germany, but I've traveled to a number of countries. From time to time my young doctor friend—though neither he nor I is quite so young any more—gets letters about strange cases in other countries. I sometimes travel with him; other times, when he cannot be spared, I travel there without him, perform examinations, send him letters and so forth, and occasionally bring patients back to him. When there are no patients in far away places, I sometimes travel, just because I wish to. I survive easily on what I earn with him. I've scarcely touched my inheritance."

Erik was mystified. He couldn't decide whether to believe a single word of it. And he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"So there you are," she said. "I haven't had a joyful life. You can't look at someone's face and assume they've had a joyful life. I'm nothing if not proof of that. But I've made meaning of it. I've learned a great deal about the world and its people. I've worked with a number of quite famous doctors. I've studied anatomy, teratology and psychology. I haven't yet encountered a doctor who can tell me what happened to my son and why, and I haven't learned how to ensure it doesn't happen to anyone else. But just because I've managed to accept my misfortune without complaining doesn't mean that I have never experienced suffering..."

She trailed off and let him draw his own conclusions, for her story had come to a close. She had revealed more to him over tea than she had to anyone else, perhaps in her life, and far more than anyone had ever learned about him.

He appeared deep in thought. For the first time since she'd spoken her son's name, she became aware of the room around her, the table in front of her, the man across from her. She looked into his wretched eyes and wondered if it had been a mistake to tell him anything. Then she noticed the tea, which neither of them had managed to take more than a single sip of, and she set to clearing the table.


	20. Chapter 20: Envy & Guilt

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Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Edited and revised on 4/14/2008.

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Erik remained steeped in thought at the table. The story in and of itself was tragic and terrible, but it was not the story that troubled him. Uncontrollable thoughts abounded. Perhaps he could no longer make excuses for his own mother; loathing was not the only reaction possible to such a face. And if that was so—and it must be so for it was true for Elizabeth and Jacob—then perhaps it was not his face that so disgusted his mother but the very thought of him at all. What else was wrong with him besides his face that she detested him so? The solution of a mask had been refuted, and that position may have been correct after all. After all, his mother had given him a mask but she _still_ hadn't let him touch her, not even when he was wearing it. Even Christine shrank from him once she knew what lie beneath it. He had always considered humanity's rejection of him reason enough to excuse his crimes, but that argument seemed to lack credibility in the presence of this woman who had endured so much and come away without the same resentment. There was a bitter irony that his own mother shrank in horror from him and he lived to feel her rejection while a mother who had shown genuine love for her child had that child ripped from life unexpectedly.

But worst of all was his feeling of envy for Jacob—Jacob who had not only experienced a mother's love in his short life, but had also been fortunate enough to die before his appearance came to matter more. Oh! If only he himself had died before he had grown enough to understand what was whispered behind the hands, or spoken aloud, or spewed at him with derision. And Jacob's death was tragic because there was someone to grieve, while his own death would have left his mother relieved and no one to miss him. Ah, what a cruelly ironic place this world was that he had ever lived at all!

He suddenly remembered that only three weeks ago he had determined to die, and _he wished for death again_. But as that thought occurred to him, a revolting sensation seized him, caused him to turn from the table and double over with nausea. This woman had come here and saved his life. This woman had cared for him when he did not care for himself. This woman had shared a fortnight of her life and the story of her greatest pain. A fortnight is not so long a time, perhaps, but it seemed an eternity considering. She had come entirely of her own accord, not through deceit of any kind. Yes, he had a sent a request, but it was only that; she could have declined. She had stayed entirely on her own. She had cared for him in such a tender way, without being asked, when he cared nothing at all for himself. And then, after he had been harsh and insulting, instead of showing him anger, she had made herself vulnerable, shared what quite possibly was her darkest secret. In so doing she had attached herself to him. His death _now_ would affect her. He was suddenly responsible to someone other than himself in a way he had never before been, and _he was terrified_.

When she returned from clearing away the tea tray she noticed his pensive look, stepped behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Without thinking of what he was doing, he stood and embraced her. He placed her head against his chest, held her close and ran his hands comfortingly down her back. He remembered the times he had been forced to recall painful events of the past, how he despised it, how wretched he always felt afterwards, and he felt guilt, for he had placed her in this position. And though she did not openly weep, he believed he had caused her agony and he could not repair it. For the first time in—well, perhaps for the very first time, actually, he allowed himself to cry for someone other than himself. She felt his chest heave as he sobbed silently. His wave of emotion caught her off guard and she, too, was moved to tears. They wiped away each other's tears. Then as their eyes met he looked at her—really looked at her—and saw not the lines on her face or her faded beauty but the loveliness of her soul, and he felt his pulse quicken. She looked into his eyes, trembled in his arms, and for a moment he completely forgot his face. He was just a man, holding a beautiful woman who was looking at him with something that might be love in her eyes. He kissed her. And she did not pull away.


	21. Chapter 21: Friend

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

It had been several weeks since the day she spoke of her son and her husband, and she hadn't mentioned them since. He hadn't mentioned Christine, either, and he realized that though he had often though of her, he had never mentioned her at all to his Friend. That was how he called her, both in his mind and aloud—his Friend. He couldn't bear to speak her name aloud. It felt like a betrayal of Christine, but it was clear to him that she was at the very least his friend. She wasn't an enemy; she wasn't indifferent; she had helped him when he was in terrible condition; she had returned when she said she would, and she seemed to care for him. And they had shared one kiss—he would not do that again!

Not that it wasn't wonderful...There were so many breathtaking things about it. There was having his arms wrapped tightly around the waist of a woman, the simple fact that a woman--any woman--was close to him, that she had not drawn back in loathing, had not run away. Then there was the feeling of her body pressing against his. There was hearing her breath, looking into her eyes. There was the softness of her lips on his—such lips as he had. His eyes were closed, but he felt her with every nerve, with ever pore. What started as a consoling embrace became a tender kiss then suddenly an urgent, powerful pull that drew them into one another, hands frantically grasping, hearts pounding, souls burning. But he drew away, touched her lips with his fingertip, turned away left her standing there, wondering.

Yes, they had shared a passionate kiss, which seemed to suggest far more than friendship, especially considering he had called Christine his wife when they had only each kissed each other once on the forehead, but he wouldn't—he couldn't—go further than friend again, and even "friend" could be dangerous. He couldn't trust her, and he couldn't trust himself. It was simply too much.

After all, he had made that mistake with Christine. In calling her his bride he had convinced himself that it was possible, making her departure seem as though he had actually _lost _something rather than had simply _not obtained_ something he desired. Calling Elizabeth "Friend" was easy enough, if not entirely safe. There certainly wasn't an issue of confusing her with anyone else! It wasn't as though there were many other friends with whom to confuse her! He thought back over the years and could name only one or two. Madame Giry had certainly been friendly towards him. She never gossiped about him and delivered messages for him when he wished. He had made her a promise that Meg would someday be an empress, though he had no idea how he could possibly make that happen—especially now. Yes, Madame Giry had been friendly, but she had never even seen his face and they had never had a real conversation. Most importantly there was no way to know if she sought to please him only for Meg's sake or whether there was any real caring. He wondered. She seemed sincere, but could one ever be sure?

Then there was the Persian, the daroga—the Persian chief of police—who had followed him from Persia after pursuing him to the borders of the country, seeking his death, only to declare him dead when he was not, thereby ending the game of cat and mouse. Though the game was officially over, the pursuit continued, for the Persian felt some obligation to prevent him from committing further murders—as if he had ever been murderous by choice! Yes, the Persian had also been friendly, that was true, but he had his own motivations as well. By faking Erik's death, he effectively gave himself leave to retire. Of course, killing Erik would have done the trick just as quickly, even if not quite as easily. Was it mercy or mere laziness? The Persian had seen his face and had somehow been filled with horror and pity at the same time. Pity. Was he friendly, or charitable? One couldn't be entirely sure.

But Elizabeth! She had no motivation to stay once she encountered him, especially after the way he had treated her at that first meeting! She had no reason to return to him when he requested it. She had no reason to stay, to lift him from the floor—how had she managed that?—to care for him—he thought of it now; she had nursed him when he was at death's door. She had looked upon his face and utterly ignored the horror of it. She not only had not run away, but she had dragged his pitiful body to the bed and had nursed him to health when he had all but starved himself to death. She had no reason. And then, when he was strong again, she stayed still! She stayed after he had judged her, and she had given of herself She had no reason to stay save that she wished to. Why? He shook his head; he could not fathom her! People do things for a reason. Christine had lost her father, needed a father-figure, wanted singing lessons, believed he was an angel. He had been alone, noticed her, saw that she was lonely, figured she would be easier to persuade than other women, took a chance. The Persian hoped to help his own career. Madame Giry hoped to help her daughter. But Elizabeth... what reason had she?

Nevertheless, he would never call her more than a Friend. He had had only one true love in his life, and it had ended in tragedy. Well, okay, not quite tragedy, but almost. It had certainly felt tragic to him, though perhaps he had done the right thing. Surely Christine was happy with Raoul. This was the reason she did not return to him.

Perhaps it was possible, after all, to live without love. Perhaps having a friend or two was enough. Perhaps someday, when he was ready, he would contact Madame Giry and the Persian. Perhaps someday he could get himself together enough to have contact with people from the outside world without feeling the need to strike fear into their hearts and command them. But not now. Not yet. He could not face those who knew that he loved Christine and has lost her. But Elizabeth... she knew nothing of Christine. Being around her, talking _to_ her was (perhaps) safe.

Perhaps their strange conversations about their respective pasts—or perhaps future conversations about more pleasant topics—were enough. Enough for what? Enough to make life bearable? Worth living? He could go as far as "not quite as torturous" and that was enough for the present moment.

Thinking about the future was not an option. It caused waves of dread every time the possibility of returning to what life had been like before Christine entered his mind. Whoever once said "Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all" was either a fool or a liar. He felt like a poor man who had subsisted entirely on bread and water after having finally tasted the finest delicacies. Though it was physically possible to return to life as he has lived it before, he would not—could not—forget the taste he had had, and would be forever tortured by its memory. Contemplating a future of perhaps years of feeling that way was unbearable.

But for the present moment—just this instant in time—perhaps it was possible to live without love, especially at his age. Perhaps he had passed the point where love mattered. But maybe it was possible to have a friend. _Maybe_.


	22. Chapter 22: Argument

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

But another thought occurred to him and struck him cold. He told himself it shouldn't bother him, for he had not expected much anyway, but somehow, he must have lied to himself again. He cursed himself for it. It was one thing to be ugly, he chided himself, but quite another to be both ugly and stupid, and now he was both. Most of his life, he'd never thought himself stupid once. Certainly, he was hideous. Everyone said so, and he could see it for himself when he chanced to glance upon a mirror. But he was not dull-witted. He'd made some very bad decisions as of late, however; decisions that had resulted in the possible danger of being discovered—decisions brought about by his feelings for Christine. Now, when she was finally gone and she should have returned to his former shrewd-minded self, he'd instead become slower and more dense still! _He'd done it again._ He was filled with self-loathing. For in having the woman around, though he insisted upon calling her merely a friend, there was apparently a part of himself that did not consent to that arrangement and _was making other plans_. That must be it, or why else would the thought that had just occurred to him fill him with such dread? And why hadn't it occurred to him sooner?

Well, it hadn't occurred to him sooner because he had so little personal experience with relationships, especially with the fairer sex. But now that he was thinking clearly, he considered her behavior. With the exception of that one single kiss—which he had initiated! Why did he always have to initiate everything only be to rejected entirely?—hadn't she been entirely motherly? Hadn't she picked him up and somehow _carried_ him to the bed? Hadn't she brought him food and drink and hovered over him? Hadn't she scolded him when he'd lost his temper, and hadn't she made a point of teaching him a lesson? And hadn't she lost her only child? And hadn't that child been somehow deformed? Perhaps _almost_ as deformed as he? It was impossible to tell exactly what she felt, but whether it was simple longing for her child or guilt that she had let her child die, it was entirely likely that this kindness and concern was as much to assuage her own negative feelings as to help him. Of course it made sense. Everyone does things for a reason. What reason could she possibly have? After all these years of loneliness, she takes what she needs from me, he thought miserably. He had not suffered nearly fifty long years in this ghastly world only to satisfy her desire to be a mother.

His brow knit and what lips he had turned down into a shapeless gaping frown. He wrapped one shaking bony hand around the other and held them both still in his lap. He had done it again he rebuked himself. He had allowed himself to get attached to someone again without knowing first her feelings. He had done it again and now he would suffer, for though he'd often thought of his mother, though he'd often wished that she had acted as a mother should, though he sometimes dreamed of being a child again and this time being loved, it was far too late now—he was far too old—for a mother. He was nearing fifty, and he wanted more, regardless of how much he might tell himself he didn't. He told himself he didn't because he knew it wasn't going to happen, of course, but the fact remained that he still desired it. He wanted what nearly every other man wanted and most often got—a woman to be his wife, someone to take out in the carriage on Sundays, someone to talk to, someone to tell his dreams to, someone with whom to grow old and die—rather than to die alone. And though he did not love her—would _never_ allow himself to love her—for a time he'd had a taste of what it could be like. For, in love with her or not, over the course of the past few weeks he had had someone to talk to whenever he wished, and they had had a few nice conversations, though when he was not in utter anguish he managed to remain quite guarded in speech, mostly letting her fill the space and simply listening. He supposed if he'd wanted to share dreams she would have listened and if he'd wished to take her out in a carriage she'd have obliged. Three weeks was not long enough to grow old, but it was clear that she would not have left him to die alone; as a matter of fact she had had that opportunity twice and had deliberately done the opposite. But someone who viewed him as a child—why, this was worse than someone who regarded him with pity.

Elizabeth passed by—for the home on the lake was no so large—as he was wallowing in his misfortune. "Friend," he managed to croak.

"Why, what is it, dear?" He took no notice of the word "dear." The British called everyone dear and her long years in Germany had not changed this in her. Everyone would always be "dear" to her, just as tea would always be the remedy for everything. Besides, "dear" could even be what one calls one's son.

"I'm not your child, you know." He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "You're not going to make a mother of yourself by trying to take care of me." Wasn't there a nicer way to say that? Surely there was! But having already arrived at the conclusion that she was using him to satisfy her mothering instinct he was hurt and angry and reverted to the only means he knew—to use sarcasm and anger to distance himself, to pretend that he was the one putting the distance there. He knew it and he hated himself for it, but _there it was anyway, just like his face_. Hating something doesn't make it change. _That_ much his life had surely proven or _he would have ceased to exist_ almost immediately after he entered the world.

She hesitated. She folded her arms. She considered walking away, exiting through the door of the kitchen, which lead to the secret passageway that was the fastest way out. It occurred to her that any woman in possession of her faculties—or at least any woman who felt the need to retain her proud outwardly—would have probably done so. She pursed her lips. She glared. She looked at the ceiling and sighed. Finally, at long last: "Is _that_ what you think?" She closed her eyes for a long moment, then, when he did not answer but only made a horrible face at her she turned and walked away from him.

Oh! he'd been wrong! He'd been wrong and now it was too late. She had walked away. He cursed himself. She would leave now, and he would be left with knowing that he'd had a second chance and he'd ruined that, the same way he'd ruined all his chances with Christine. A second chance? At what? Forget that. He did not want any second chances! But he'd had something, perhaps, and he'd throw _that_, whatever it was, away, too! He was a fool—a lonely old fool—but what more could he be? Who had taught him social graces, gentility, gentleness? No one, indeed. He'd been taught only fear, loathing, and anger. It was, perhaps, all he deserved after all. He was ugly. He was ugly both inside and out. The ugliness on the outside reflected the ugliness within the same as a mirror reflects the ugliness without back again. He would die here, alone and lonely, but it would take a long, long time.

He'd been so close to death before she'd come and dragged him back from the depths, only to discard him to die once more. He hated her for that almost as much as he hated his wretched self, and so he bellowed at her retreating form "That's it. Leave now. I always knew that's what you'd do. You think you're so kind. You're no better than all the rest. You're worse perhaps because you masquerade as tolerant, but in the end, just like the others, you go away!"

She had stopped to listen with her back still turned. Then she turned 'round again and looked at him. No anger showed in her face, only sadness. And she said it again. "Is _that _what you think? Is that what you _really_ think?"

How was he supposed to answer that? He stood and stared at her, his mouth fallen slightly open but nothing to say. Could he be wrong in this, too? Was it possible for him to be wrong about everything?

She advanced to him again. Her tone was serious but soft. "I am not going to have this conversation with you right now. I don't know what's come over you, but you are not in any state of mind to converse civilly. I will be happy to discuss anything you wish with you when you are prepared to speak to me decently and when you are you'd better leave my son out of this. I could never possibly mistake my son for you for he was _kind_ and _gentle_ and had he been fortunate enough to grow up, I am _certain_ he would never have said such things to anyone. As to the rest, I _was_ not leaving—and still am not _yet_—unless you consider going out to sit by the lake leaving. I simply wish to get away from you _at this moment_." She turned on her heel and departed.

Yet, she said. She is not leaving _yet_. This means she will leave... Was it her intention to leave soon? Or was that a warning? _At this moment_, she had said. _At this moment_—not forever. He took a step to follow her then thought the better of it. He wandered slowly to the room which contained the organ—his room—the place where he slept—and went inside without closing the door. He sat and touched the keyboard lovingly.

Christine. Christine might have screamed at him. Maybe she would have thrown herself on the floor and cried to flood his heart with guilt and self-loathing. Or maybe she would have run away. Though she may have come back again, he would have had to _lure_ her with his voice, or with empty promises, and even then, she wouldn't have stayed. Of course, if it had been Christine he would have chased her down, grabbed hold of her, _held_ her there, _prevented_ her from leaving him.

He hated himself for the way he had treated Christine when she'd been there, hated who he was when he was with her, but somehow he could not help it. When she turned to go he felt his whole life falling apart and his sorrow was surpassed only by his rage that it was she who caused his sorrow. Yes, he'd have grabbed her, held her, stopped her. She might have struck him with her fists. He'd have held on and pretended her fight was futile, though her small fists pained his body nearly as much as _the idea that she struck him wounded his soul_. Christine—Christine! But how they had treated one another! Maybe it was better this way, her so far away, where they could not hurt one another...

And yet he hurt anyway. When Christine was with him she was miserable, causing him deep pain. When Christine was away from him, he was equally miserable for loneliness and yearning for her. When she finally accepted him he should have been filled with joy, and yet guilt consumed him, and he was miserable. And when he released her and she left with Raoul, he was miserable with regret and longing. In his misery he hoped to die and felt wretched every time he awakened. It had been one long misery, and yet he yearned for it again. Why?

Elizabeth had done nothing unkind and he had treated her badly. He searched the depths of his soul. Why had he blamed her? He couldn't explain it. He placed his fingers softly on the keys of the organ. Then he began to play. The music that emerged surprised him, for it was soft and gentle and full of tenderness. He played until he was exhausted, then he slowly stood and walked away.

How long had he played? Was she still outside? He'd behaved terribly. There was only one right thing to do. He crept outside quietly.

She was sitting very close to the water with her knees bent and one arm wrapped around her legs. Her long black dress gave her the appearance of being draped as she sat there in the darkness. As he neared her, he saw that she trailed the fingers of one hand in the murky water. He crept up softly, then thought the better of sneaking up on her. He kicked some pebbles as he walked, intentionally making some noise. She turned her head, almost imperceptibly.

He crouched beside her, reached for her hand, but hesitated. "Forgive me?" he whispered.

She smiled. "Already done."

His heart rejoiced. "Why are you so good to me?" he asked. In his mind his arms encircled her waist and he pulled her close, enjoying the sense of having someone near.

But when she reached for his hand, he drew it away. "Let's go inside," she said simply.


	23. Chapter 23: Analysis

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

She made him lie on the couch. She insisted, really. She sat in a chair not far away. She was positioned by his head but slightly out of his range of view. This made him uncomfortable as she could see his expression but he could not see his. He wanted to refuse her request, but guilt would not allow it. He wanted command of his own life again, but felt too despondent to assert himself. He wanted the mask—the safety of hiding behind something hard, cold, and expressionless. He felt vulnerable, and he abhorred it. He trembled.

She reached forward, touched him reassuringly. He yearned to respond, but willed himself to pull away. In the end, he did neither. "Whatever this is," she said softly, "it isn't going to work unless—" she leaned forward and pushed him back down onto the couch, for having heard the first five words of the phrase, he'd ignored the sixth and started up again full of conflicting emotions. "I said _unless_," she repeated. "Unless. Will you listen carefully before you react?" She smoothed what little hair he had back and began again. "This won't work—whatever it is—unless you put the past behind you. I don't know where this is going or what we are doing either. It might be a good idea if we talked about that sometime rather than leaving each other in the dark and guessing. But it doesn't matter because there's no point if you are going to continue to act this way. I know it's not your fault. How could you know this isn't what to do? So I shall tell you, and then you will know.

I'm not a child, Erik. I'm not a silly little girl. I've been a woman, a wife, a mother, and a widow. I've traveled the world without a man. I've run my own affairs and I've been educated. Young people have all the time in the world for strong emotions. They can get angry, say things they don't mean, beg forgiveness again and again. Take for example a young couple courting. He can say something inappropriate and she will permit it because she thinks he is so handsome—no wait—let me finish. She can slap him in the face and he'll take it because he so desires her affection. She can play foolish games and flirt with other men to make him jealous. And he has a choice. He can rage angrily or he can sob uncontrollably, or he can pretend it doesn't hurt him and wait for her to become jealous of that. They have all the time in the world. And if they go too far and become estranged from one another, it does not matter because they are young and the world is full of other young men and women. Ultimately, it all comes to an end because their parents get involved, make a selection and that's that. Do you think it stays the same after that? Surely you have seen men and their wives, even if just at the opera. Surely you have noticed that they cannot be coy and play games the rest of their lives! Surely you've noticed that people change as they get older, haven't you? You have said such things to me that a girl would burst into childish tears and run from you crying. Those days are over for me, however. I have seen too much and know too much. You seem to be bent on deliberately provoking me. If you need the theatrics and histrionics, then I should go away right now." She paused. "You are, after all, living in a theatre. Perhaps if business recovers, you'll be surrounded by it once again. Is that all you want? Wild emotions?"

He considered. Her courtship example sounded quite familiar. _Sickeningly_ familiar. "No," he said. He didn't need _that _part. Just the part that was supposed to come _after_... The happy ending. He never should have even dreamed it, for he'd known all along it couldn't come true. "No," he told Elizabeth, but he didn't dare say more.

"Good" she said and he relaxed only slightly. "Then let's get this discussion about what you said—about using you to replace my son—over with right now."

He regretted having brought it up, but there didn't seem to be any going back now. "I'm sorry," he said, though it was more a complaint than an apology.

"I know you are, and I'm not worried about _what_ you said. I'm worried about what _made_ you say it. Is that really what you think when you look at me?"

"No," he began. But how to explain it! "You are my friend, yes?"

"Yes." He could hear her smile when she said it.

"I don't think..." he began. It sounded awkward. "I don't believe that I've ever had one of those before."

He heard her make a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and saying "oh" and she reached forward again to touch him.

"I was going over, in my mind, the few people who have come close, and it seemed that each one had another motive of some kind. Advancement of self, of family, of career. Each person who was willing to endure me did so in order to gain something. Even the one who—" he stopped. He hadn't told her about Christine. "You'll think it childish," he explained.

"Go on," she said simply, and somehow, that was enough. It all tumbled out—the hiding behind the walls, the singing lessons, the story about the Angel of Music, Christine's triumph that night when Carlotta was sick, Raoul's attention, his own jealousy, his capture of her, her subsequent release and return, her love for Raoul, her confusion, his pain, his plan to destroy them all if he could not have her, how he forced her into promising to marry him by threatening the population of Paris, how she had implored him to spare the lives of the two men in the torture chamber, how she had promised herself to him, his joy when she let him kiss her on the forehead, and finally, how he could not keep her when he looked in her eyes and realized what he had done. Silence. He was weeping. She touched his face, waited for him to regain his composure. "And so..." she said.

And so... He thought. "And so there has been so little joy. And what little there has been has been short and has been wrenched away leaving a pain greater than before the joy had come. And so, having enjoyed your company these few weeks, I sought to prepare myself for what would inevitably come next."

"And why would that come next?"

"Because it always does!" he fought to keep the anger out of his voice. Her hands were soothing, and he tried to relax beneath them, but it was of little use.

"It always does because..." she left the statement unfinished and he sensed it was a question.

"Because... It always does because...Oh, don't make me say it," he finished weakly.

"You _must_ say it," she responded.

The tears began anew and his gruesome face contorted into an expression far uglier as he tried to repress his emotion. "Because I am so hideous," he moaned putting his hands to his face. "Because no one on earth can bear the sight of me. Because this face—" he clawed angrily at the yellow waxy skin of the death's head with his fingernails "is horrid. Because to look upon me repulses the world, fills them with disgust, fills them with dread and makes them flee. Because... Because..." he could not go on. He was choking and had to lift himself from the couch and turn to the side, gagging. He sat, struggling to catch his breath through heavy sobs that he continued to fight. He felt a presence behind him, something around his waist. "So ugly" he whispered, still weeping. It was she. She had moved from her chair to sit behind him on the couch, her arms about his waist and her head against his back. She held him tightly and swayed left and right gently to the rhythm of his sobs.

He could not remember a time when he had cried so hard and for so long. He drew a ragged breath and sought to swallow the lump in his throat. She tightened her arms and pressed herself against his back. He turned, slowly and looked at her. How could she remain here? How did she not avert her eyes? "How" he asked her, his voice tremulous with emotion. "How?" She simply smiled and this set him weeping again. "How can you be real?" he asked through his tears. "You are... so kind. You were... so good... to your son. My mother... my poor mother... I told you, didn't I? No... I didn't tell you... I only asked... my mother... made for me a mask... when I was very young. There was a rule... I had to wear that mask. I wanted... only to please her. I wore it... though it was terribly uncomfortable... it impaired my vision... it hurt my face. But I wanted her... to love me... so I wore it. It didn't work, though... it didn't work because... she still kept me... away... from her. I remember... times I forgot it... the way she would cry out... turn from me... rush away... If it were within her reach... she would throw it to me... behind her... without looking at me. I saw... other children... with their mothers. They held their hands... kissed their cheeks."

He was panting now between sobs, scarcely able to breathe, and she worried, but she did not dare interrupt.

"Not mine! No! She hated me..." he sobbed. "I loved her... and she... hated me. I didn't ask to look this way! Why... why?"

He let her pull him limply to her and put his head on her shoulder and wept for what felt like eternity.


	24. Chapter 24: Freak

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

Original note:  
:sob!: This is the last of the pre-written chapters, so after, I can only post as often as I can write!

No, but seriously, I'm okay... Just expect me to be a bit slower than I was at first. No more posting five chapters a day, not even the short kind...

But in the meantime y'all I've just GOT to ask a couple of questions, since I'm still new at this. How is it that there are 27 hits for chapter 21 but 47 hits for chapter 22... More people read the LATER chapter. That just doesn't make much sense to me... I can understand not liking someone's ideas or writing style or whatever and abandoning the work 1/2 way through... but I CAN'T understand skipping a chapter but continuing anyway. Help me understand... Wouldn't a reader be completely confused? Is this a common thing to do? I mean, I've always been tempted to skip to the end of actual books and look at the last page or two, and sometimes I give in to that temptation... but unless the story here is marked "complete" it doesn't make much sense, does it? I mean, you're not getting "the end" you're just getting a bit later. Some of these things sure seem to go on forever! Anyway... sorry. I'm just confused. Anyway... here's the chapter.

* * *

He awoke with a start, struggling for breath. It was completely dark. He panicked. Where was he? Gasping for breath, he felt around, felt the familiar shape of the couch, realized he'd fallen asleep in the parlor. A dark motionless form was beside him, and he ascertained it was his Friend. A true friend, too, he thought, as his memory slowly trickled back to him. She was still here after... He remembered talking about Christine. He remembered talking about his mother. His head throbbed. His eyes were blurry and his throat ached. He must have cried himself to sleep in her arms. Embarrassing, he thought. He was somehow mortified and unconcerned at once. He struggled to get up. His breathing felt raspy from sobbing, and his shoulders and chest ached, too. She stirred beside him, murmured something softly. He couldn't just leave her here on the couch, he thought, so he lifted her in his arms and carried her to her room. Her room! Yes, it was her room now. It had been Christine's room for a time... then she had made it his room when he lingered between life and death—and had she slept on the couch? In that chair beside the bed? He couldn't recall!—but it was her room now. It was where she had stayed each night since he recovered. He, of course, had returned to sleeping in the coffin—he found it a comfort—though he knew the thought of it disturbed her and so he made a point to always go to sleep after her and to be up before she awakened.

She awakened as he placed her on the bed and he was surprised as her first concern was for him. Apparently her memory returned more quickly upon waking than his. She gripped his hand, asked if he was okay, was there more to tell, how did he feel? To be perfectly honest, he felt awkward at being asked how he felt. He couldn't recall anyone ever asking such a thing before. He shook his head, declined to answer, pulled away. With a clumsy caress, he bid her goodnight and stood to leave, to return to his room, his coffin; but she tightened her grip on his hands and pulled him downward. He struggled against her, but she held her ground and said, "You'll not sleep in that coffin, I forbid it. Not tonight... not after—" she tugged at him until he fell forward onto the bed. "Lie down. You sleep here tonight." She moved to get up, and he resigned himself to staying. He was too tired to argue. Actually, maybe he was too tired to get up at all. He could scarcely remember feeling so tired ever in his life. She got up and moved through the house. Perhaps she went to the couch. Or the chair. Certainly she did not consider sleeping in the coffin. He smiled at this thought and drifted to sleep. Then he was dreaming. Where was he, exactly? It was dark and cold, and he was alone. It was a strange, faded memory from a point in time he couldn't quite place. Names and faces were obscured, as was his own age, but emotions were poignant. Loneliness. Helplessness. Fear. He stirred, restlessly. He felt someone beside him and he recoiled defensively, but the touch was soft, gentle, and warm. Someone held him. It was a strange but wonderful feeling. A soft slender hand caressed his face, found the back of his head and remained there, while an arm encircled his waist. Too fatigued to contemplate whether this was real or a dream or whether it was right or wrong, he wrapped his arms around and held on tightly.

When he awakened he was in Christine's room. Christine was not there. He remembered, slowly... Elizabeth. Elizabeth was not there either. Had either of them been real? He turned to look beside him where he'd sensed a presence in the night. He lay beside an empty space. How much of that was been a dream? Perhaps he'd dreamed her entirely. Someone like that couldn't possibly exist after all. And if she had, she was gone forever now...

He took a deep breath. His chest still ached. He struggled to remember... There was something she'd been trying to tell him... Oh yes. That was it. Don't react so quickly. Where had he learned to react so rashly? Or was it merely that he hadn't ever learned not to? How did everyone else learn this? He stood, shuffled out the door, found himself pleasantly surprised. She wasn't gone after all. How many times had he thought that? How many times had he become enraged or disconsolate at her disappearance only to find she had not been gone at all? And how many more times would it take before he stopped leaping to that conclusion? Never, he told himself. Never—for as soon as I am able to rely on her presence, she will be absent; and having come to believe she would always be there will make it worse. Still, he could at least force himself not to react so strongly and so swiftly. Was it possible? Could it be he could... change? He stood contemplating the prospect in wonder.

She had made breakfast. He smiled—really smiled—at her as they took their seats across the table and began to eat. She said nothing of the night before, and he wondered what she'd thought of such an outburst. He must do something about that, too. He couldn't be sobbing all the time. It would get tiresome eventually... As a matter of fact, it had already become tiresome years ago, but he hadn't the slightest idea how to get past it in his loneliness. Maybe loneliness was a bigger problem than the past itself. Somehow, this morning—if it were indeed actually morning; it was hard to tell as it was perpetually night down here—it didn't seem so bad. The past hadn't changed a bit, and yet today didn't seem so bad. He half expected that perhaps he didn't quite look as bad as he used to either and wondered if he dared to look. No, not yet. It was far too early for that. It would set him right back to where he'd been. Of course he looked the same. What did he expect? Miracles? Magic?

But when _was_ the last time he'd seen his own face? Did he even remember accurately? There were mirrors all around the opera house, but there were none on this level. He'd made sure of that. When he was above ground, he always wore the mask. When he passed the mirrors, it was always on. Even masked, though, he didn't bother to look unless there was a reason. Like making sure the mask was placed perfectly before going to see Christine. Of course, there was the mirror in Christine's dressing room upstairs, but again, he always wore the mask there. Certainly he hadn't looked in a mirror on purpose since he'd been here, and that had been... well, years.

He vaguely recalled an unhappy time during early childhood, a couple of accidental instances while building the torture chambers, both in Persian and here. Another time or two at the freak show. Ah, the freak show! Something she'd said reminded him of that. He considered whether to bring it up. Well, if she had stayed through last night, why not? Surely anyone who had endured that could listen to this.

"Have I told you—" he paused. He had intended to use her first name but still couldn't bring himself to do so. "Have I told you, my Friend, about the freak show?"

She looked gravely serious and he started to laugh. "Don't worry, I can talk about it. Compared to last night, this will be a walk in the park. I only thought that I hadn't told you, and perhaps you ought to know. It was something you said about the sanitorium that reminded me."

"What was that?" she asked. She sounded strangely timid as though afraid of what might happen next.

"You mentioned being surrounded by people like animals. People that other people locked up."

"Yes."

"I've been there. But it wasn't a sanitorium. It was just a show."

She looked gravely sad. No doubt she was wondering what he was going to say or do next, if he was going to fall apart again. She looked so serious sitting there he almost had to laugh. He waved his hand. "It wasn't that bad," he said to comfort her. What was he saying? It wasn't that bad? Of course it was bad, but...

"You have never seen one?

She shook her head. "Never."

"Never?" he was surprised. "I'll have to show you then. It was... something I did... for a time. To earn money. Far easier than earning an honest living, which wasn't really an option for me anyway. People wouldn't hire me. It seemed simple at first, you know. All you have to do is be there. Let them look at you. But it gets to you, you know?"

She was nodding, though she couldn't possibly know. "It was like that there, too. But I don't think I'd want to see the show. I've heard they're terrible. They profit from the misfortunes of others. Deplorable."

"Indeed. It sounds as though you have seen one then! You're sure you haven't, though? You meet some of the most unusual people in such places. The performers, I mean. Unusual—ha! Obviously. I don't mean the way they look, though. Interesting people. Good people, most of them. The owners and promoters, well, I imagine some of them are nice enough. Some are downright terrible. Others you can manipulate. Of course, the audience isn't exactly kind." He smiled at his understatement.

"I'm not saying you'd like it. But someone like you, there might be some good you could do there." Surely this wasn't him speaking. What was he suggesting? Why should he care at all, now that he was no longer there? "We had an arrangement, you know. It looked all right on the surface, you know. They didn't own us—well, not all of us, anyway—we were just performers. We earned our money. The owner of the show made a cut for advertising, providing the tents, making travel arrangements. But it doesn't matter how they put it. Even the better run places the bottom line is the people—the regular people who work there—they didn't see us as human. It doesn't matter if they whip you or not. Well, it matters. I greatly prefer not being whipped to being whipped, obviously, but what I mean is even when you're not whipped, it doesn't make you feel any more human."

"It was like that in the sanitorium, too. Not all of them, of course, but some of them. Doctors were all right, I guess. Some better than others. But there were other people, nurses, and people who weren't even nurses—people who brought the food, people who guarded the halls, people who worked in offices. They regarded us with a kind of fear."

"Ah, fear. Fear hasn't bothered me. Fear can be used to manipulate. But disgust is another thing entirely."

"I suppose there were those who looked upon us with disgust as well. But even fear didn't do for me. You understand, I went in with the goal to get better and come out, not to simply hide from society or allow society to hide from me. More often than not, it seemed the goal was simply to protect those on the outside from us. There were times I thought I'd live and die there."

"For me, that's here."

"How long has it been since you've been out?"

"Oh, I've gone outside from time to time, but I've lived here full time since before the opening in 1875."

"Eleven years!" she exlaimed.

He calculated quickly. "I suppose it has been that long," he replied with a wry smile.

"But you have been outside, you say?"

"Oh, occasionally." He waved his hand. "You've realized yourself the necessity of going to the surface for supplies, of course."

She was intrigued. "You just... go out?" He had given her the impression he allowed no one to see him—ever—so the idea of him going to market was entirely incredible. "How—"

He was clearly amused by her struggle to determine how to ask the question tactfully. He studied her through narrowed eyes for a moment, then finally conceded, "I have a variety of disguises, actually," but no more. He could feel her curiosity intensify so he added, "There was once a carriage ride with an opera singer—the one I told you about—and a visit to her father's grave..."

"Ah... A carriage ride you say?" She was still more intrigued, apparently. Her eyes sparkled. Why? he wondered.

"At night, of course. And masked." She was smiling, and he could guess what she was thinking, even having known her this short period of time. "Of course" he said with a wave. He couldn't quite believe he'd agreed to it. How long had it been since he'd last been out? After Christine left, he'd gone to visit the daroga. He waited a few weeks until he felt death was imminent, then sent the parcel. He couldn't be sure how long it was before Elizabeth interrupted the first time. Not too long. Perhaps a few days. She'd been in his home only a few hours before he sent her away. It had been perhaps a week until he sent his desperate message. At least a week of delirium followed by perhaps another week of kindness and conversation, the argument, then back to kindness. Endless conversations about everything and yet nothing. They were conversations one might have with someone one had known all one's life—or for only a day. They regarded mundane trivia; he couldn't even remember the topics.

Easily it had been more than a month, if his estimates were correct, though it was hard to tell time in his present condition. When the opera house was open, one could determine the date and time by the performances. When he went above ground, it was easy to determine whether it was night or day, and track time that way. Even supplies could be used to gauge how much time had passed—except if one either refused to eat or did not prepare one's own meals. He considered how entirely removed from the world he'd become over a period of perhaps five weeks. The irony, he thought. He had lived entirely alone for years, and yet this—period of time, however long it was—in which he'd had a near constant companion, he was more removed from the world than ever before. And now, in the midst of such removal, he'd arbitrarily agreed to a carriage ride? Preposterous! Though it would be easy to arrange (assuming the horses were still there and a few minor modifications to a carriage he was sure he could locate) he hesitated to act upon it.

He considered—this would be the first thing he arranged in a long while. In the time she'd been here, she'd handled everything. In a way, he'd gotten everything he'd wanted. He was not alone. He had someone to talk to now—someone who was not afraid of him, seemingly, in the least. But in another way, something was lacking. It seemed more like having a servant than it did like having a wife. She provided a service, took nothing in return, was entirely self-sufficient. It wasn't even like having a servant, whom he would have had to pay. It wasn't like having a slave, whom he would have had to beat or threaten. It was—well, it was peculiar indeed. He felt entirely unnecessary, even worthless. He missed Christine's neediness.

Conversations were interesting, yes... but it was somewhat uncomfortable not to have the upper hand in every exchange. While there were many things about which she knew less than he, there was little about which she knew absolutely nothing. He could not play upon her superstitions, for she had none. He could not fool her easily with words, so he resorted to legerdemain. She was amused for endless hours certainly, usually unable to discern the technique he used, but he suspected she was not as impressed as some others may have been.

Still, it was pleasant to be able to make someone laugh rather than jeer. Indeed, it was pleasing to receive any reaction that was not disgust. It was heretofore unknown to him to sit across from someone barefaced and have the other not recoil. And though she did not feign surprise at his tricks—a few she had actually seen before!—he was always easily able to impress her with music. It was almost shameful how easy it was to impress her in this regard, for she had apparently no musical talent. He composed nothing new—he still couldn't quite feel the spirit of it—but he played pieces from famous operas for her to her obvious delight. No, she did not exaggerate her reactions to his talent for light-of-hand, but she did not hide her astonishment at his musical prowess either. It was, he grudgingly admitted to himself, rather gratifying.

And perhaps there was no harm in a carriage ride. It might even be enjoyable. He'd better take the chance while it was available. After all, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd have access to the horses if her news about this so-called "sale" were true.

Of course, he couldn't just sit idly by and allow it to be sold—not even to her!—he'd built it with his own hands, after all. It was rightfully his! He wondered what the cost was, how much money she had, why she'd even consider such a purchase. As far as he could tell, she had no serious interest in music. And what of _his_ interest? What had happened to him over these past few weeks? He'd created nothing, played the simplest of works with only minimal interest. But it didn't matter. Even if his talent and creativity ebbed away, he still wouldn't part with the opera house he'd built. They'd have to talk about that more, perhaps during the drive.

"I didn't spend the money, you know," he told her in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely.

She was baffled by the abrupt change of topic. "What money."

"The money from the show. Or the money from the shah. Or even what I've collected since I've been here." He sat silently a moment, enjoying having managed to actually surprise her at last. "Oh, don't act so surprised! You told me the day you met me you'd heard of the opera ghost!"

She stared at him, her mouth fallen slightly open, an expression of absolute surprise. "You!"

"Surely you had figured this out," he said, secretly reveling in having finally astonished her.

She shook her head. It was too simple. He'd built a place for himself down here, orchestrated the hauntings, whatever they had been, extorted money somehow. She laughed aloud at her imaginings of political prisoners and murders and his having been a victim rather than the perpetrator. "You _chose_ to come here!"

He shrugged. "As much as anyone chooses anything, I suppose. As much as you chose to go to the sanitorium. I choose to live apart from so-called "humanity." The exact location is a matter of accident circumstance and coincidence. It wasn't my first choice, but it was my best choice, considering my situation."

"What would have been your first choice?"

He was taken aback. It had been so long since he'd thought of it. If he had won Christine, he would have settled for anywhere—staying where he was, moving to a country home, living in a small apartment in the city with her—anywhere. Perhaps somewhere far away where no one would look upon him. But his first choice, could he choose anywhere...

"I can't remember now. Suppose I think on it, and get back to you."

"Indeed."

His thoughts had turned back to the freak show, actually. One day in particular came to mind for no readily apparent reason. He turned to face a gathering crowd and something was thrown at him. It splattered in a terrible mess on his face. Might have made an improvement he'd thought wryly. As he wiped it away, he became aware of a struggle on the other side of the bars that separated him from his audience. A girl had screamed. He'd caught the word "Horrible" and knew she meant him. The girls always thought that. The boys might stare in sick fascination, but the girls usually screamed and bolted. A boy held the girl by the shoulders. They were young—maybe seventeen or eighteen, probably courting or at least hoping to. She was still screaming something he could not entirely understand. It was not uncommon for women to scream, to swoon, even to faint. He watched, curiously. In many ways, it was a show in both directions. He watched as the girl tore free from the grasp of the boy, turned and ran out through the flap in the tent. No doubt she was angry with him for bringing her there to look at sights so horrifying.

Why did he suddenly remember that? There was nothing remarkable about that day or about that young couple. It was not more traumatic than all the rest of his days, nor was it less so. It was not a day to be remembered in particular, though he had remembered it before...

But something was different this time. There was the impact, the splattering, the smell of rotten fruit, then the high-pitched voice crying out "That's horrible." For the first time ever it occurred to him that he'd misinterpreted. Who had thrown the rotten item? Her beau? Had she called _him_ horrible? Had she left to get away from _him_? What had happened next? And he realized that all the times he'd watched them, he'd never really thought about them; he simply took it in the way it hit him. He _assumed_. He had watched interactions of so many people from his side of the bars, but his understanding of what transpired was always colored by his assumptions. What if they were wrong? All those people gasping in terror—had it really been terror? Shock, perhaps, yes, but could there have been sympathy as well that he had never noticed? Maybe not, but it was _possible_. And if that was possible, then perhaps he had misunderstood other things as well. Mother. Christine. No, he wouldn't think of them now—it would require too much time, too much focus; but there was the possibility that things were not as he had seen them in the past.


	25. Chapter 25: Contradictions

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

Original Author's Note at time of posting:  
Okay, I want everyone to know that when this whole thing started, I really thought I knew where this was leading, but suddenly I'm not so sure anymore. That having been said, I went ahead with the next chapter anyway. All day today (okay... not _all_ day today--I have a job and contrary to what one might guess from the way I've been feverishly posting, I _am_ able to concentrate on it while I'm there... It just gets to me while I'm driving there and back and any other time there's quiet for a moment...) I worried about what I was going to do now that I've "written myself into a corner" so to speak. But then I had this sudden revelation--while WASHING THE DISHES no less!--and maybe I know where I'm going. But then again, maybe I don't. So, if anyone out there wants something specific, feel free to let me know. After all, someone did once beg me "Please have Christine come back to him" and I... well, I didn't necessarily ignore their plea... I just more or less postponed worrying about it until later. Well... guess what. It's later. I'm up for thinking about anything and everything you might throw at me now!

* * *

They made their way carefully but swiftly up the long narrow passage to the stables, the easiest place to exit with a horse and carriage unnoticeably, if indeed a tortured genius and an heiress-turned-scientist could exit a closed and desolate opera house with a horse and carriage unnoticeably in the dark of night when no other soul in the world was out with a carriage at all. The only factor in their favor was that perhaps with no other soul out that night, there was no one at all to see them.

They were a peculiar pair as they darted along, he in his usual attire plus a hooded black cape and his white mask, in the lead, almost pulling her along by the hand, she behind, also entirely clad in black save her powered white face, stumbling along and giggling like a child on a first outing without either parent or governess. They were a pair of contradictions; their garments suggested funeral while their mannerisms implied merrymaking and revelry. They had both been utterly burdened by their lives, and yet they seemed to scamper joyously toward some escape. Their bodies were those of a man and a woman each easily past prime, and yet from a distance, they looked like two youths, and though they were climbing through cobwebs in a rat-infested dungeon, their ambling seemed more apt to belong on a moor.

At the door he pressed her against the wall and suddenly disappeared in the shadows leaving her to wonder how he'd managed it. A moment later he materialized from the darkness beside her as though he'd been there all along. She'd not heard a sound, but somehow he'd managed to lead the already harnessed horse to the street in an instant and return to her side. He tugged her arm once and in a sudden swoop they were out the door and into the carriage. She looked about her in wonder. They were side by side on the bench seat of a small one-horse hooded chaise that he had modified by adding side curtains of black. He lashed the horse, which was also black, and they were off at a rather high rate of speed. It was a dark night—the darkest night of the month, actually, for it was the new moon; he'd planned this specifically lest they be seen.

He made a hard left down Rue Scribe, turned left on the Boulevard des Capucines, then right onto Avenue de l'Opera, which he galloped the horse down until he reached Rue de Rivoli where he turned right, then swiftly left again, momentarily on something that didn't seem to be a street at all. Suddenly, they were along the Seine, and he slowed the winded horse to a trot, then a walk. The stars glittered overhead; the dark water beside them coursed by, a dark and ominous challenge to their seeming joy. She let out a high laugh like the tinkling of bells and leaned out into the open air. He threw his head back and laughed with her, a dark and sinister laugh, not quite certain what had come over him. Then they rode in silence for a while along the river, she staring out over the water and he looking ahead between the horse's ears at the route in front of them for an extended period of time. After he assured himself that the route was clear ahead and checked to ensure that no one was following, indeed that no one was around at all, he allowed himself the luxury of looking up at the stars, out at the water, and finally across the carriage at the woman sitting beside him. She had pushed the curtain back ever so slightly and was leaning out taking in the night air.

How he wished she wouldn't do that! He could almost see the moonlight shining off Christine's blond tresses as she leaned out the window of the brougham the night Raoul encountered them and called her name. Though there was no moon to be seen tonight and the hair of _this_ woman was decidedly black, the look was simply too familiar. He shifted the reins in his hands and tugged a little at her hand in the hopes she would move from the window, which she did, at least temporarily. She smiled at him in the darkness, and he reflected upon Christine's smile that night in the brougham before...

He cursed internally. He'd purposely made this completely different. That had been a desperate attempt on his part, while this had begun as her idea. It was a different carriage, a different horse, this time he was driving.

_She smiled at him_... And he remembered _her_ smiles all that fortnight while she remained with him, how they sang together, and how she had somehow made him feel confident enough to go about unmasked—indeed, to allow her to burn his mask! How had she convinced him? He remembered her words, so gratifying, so _treasured_ at the time, yet so hollow in reality! _I swear that you are the most unhappy and sublime of men; and, if ever again I shiver when I look at you, it will because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius!_ How pathetically he had believed it, perhaps solely for wanting to believe after so many years... How he had believed and gone about with his loathsome ugly face exposed before her! He shuddered now to think upon how he would actually _try_ to catch her eye if in day-to-day activities. And he allowed himself to believe, when she looked upon him, that she was not filled with horror and dread. To reflect upon it now was beyond embarrassing, it was humiliating, and he was filled with shame. He shivered and it was not due to the cool night air but to his having realized that he had done the same thing again. He had gone about unmasked before this one. _It was all happening over again!._

_This_ one was leaning her head out again then looking back at him with seeming delight. Oh! but they were so good at pretending anything—until the time came to commit to pretending for a lifetime and then it was all "I can't" and "don't ask this of me."

He tried to think of something else but the thought of Christine throwing an envelope from the brougham suddenly materialized from nowhere and he stole a glance at his companion. Surely she carried no surreptitious messages intended for unseen followers, but what was _her_ secret betrayal? He envisioned himself on his knees before the beautiful Christine and he realized he had reduced himself to nothing and gotten nothing in return. It might have been worth it, this complete abandonment of self-worth, if he had won the prize of her in the end. But he gave away his last shred of dignity and gained absolutely nothing in return. He visualized himself on his knees kissing the hem of her dress and he looked up and her eyes were shut tight. Had he really seen that? He hadn't noticed it before, or if he had, he had put greater stock in her words than her actions, for he had ignored it entirely. He trembled at the memory.

He felt a presence beside him, an arm around his thin form, a gentle and concerned rubbing from which he pulled away, instinctively. And to distract her from his withdrawl from her he lightly said, "I've been meaning to talk to you about the Opera."

She turned a kind face toward him. "Why is that?"

"It is the matter of the purchase. It doesn't please me." He was aloof.

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. It does _not_. Not in the least. For, though no one has entirely understood, through the many times it has changed hands, it has always been mine. That is as it should be." He enunciated every word carefully as he did when he was making a threat in the days before the departure of Christine.

She moved against him slightly nudging him with her whole body. "Ah. Well, I don't think I would consider such place at all if it didn't come with a mysterious masked figure," she replied. A thin smile played at her lips.

"Elizabeth, you can hardly think I am joking," he replied, and it was not lost on either of them that the first time he managed to use her name was in reproaching her. He was suddenly more angry that sorrowful, though had he been asked to, he could not have articulated when it occurred or why.

"We'd work something out," she said.

"Ah, so then you would 'let me stay,' then?" he said seriously, pronouncing each word like a death sentence. "I would not accept charity from you."

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," she began, ever logical. "The many times it has changed hands, it has always been yours?"

"Correct."

"So if it were to somehow fall into my hands, it would still be yours?"

"Of course."

"Then I fail to see the problem."

"It has always been rightfully mine," he said, "but it is long since time that it were mine in name as well as in spirit. I built it with my own hands. Do not think I will let it go so easily." His voice had become ominous and she was reminded of the day she first encountered him. She could almost feel the bony fingers in her hair, twisting. Still, she had gotten past that somehow, and beneath it lie something almost, but not quite, tender. Perhaps with time...

"How would you manage it?"

"I have already told you I didn't spend the money," he said without looking at her. She cursed the mask that made it harder still to see his already difficult to read dark eyes. "Do not assume that everyone who chooses to live beneath the ground is destitute."

"That's not what I meant. I meant exactly what I asked. How would you _manage_ it? I thought you made it clear you didn't want to be seen. Else we'd be doing this," she waved her hand to indicate the carriage ride "in the daylight."

He considered. Of course she was right, and it made him hate her for a moment. He turned to glare at her. "I have put myself on display for far less in the past. Do not think it is fear that keeps from doing so." But he could not have been entirely truthful, she realized, for he was angry, and fear and anger never travel far from one another.

He realized it too. That was long before the murders. Exposure now would surely result in swift action.

What was the point in arguing, she wondered? If it meant that much to him, so be it. She'd had her brief adventure. She'd even solved the mystery, though her seriousness about commitment whatever the nature of the relationship, bound her never to tell a soul. She would return to her work. Perhaps they'd even stay in touch. She smiled to herself considering the reactions she'd get from her physician friends as she opened mail written in that strange hand, closed with that strange wax seal. Indeed, she'd had a true adventure on her holiday. Enough excitement to last her perhaps the remainder of her life. Though she hadn't quite proved the point she'd hoped to, she could be probably content with this in time. She could still consider pursuing that other idea if she wanted to. The inspiration was all she'd needed. Not _help_. And she certainly didn't need an opera house to tie her down to Paris, a town where she knew no one—save her strange companion.

Out of the corner of his eye and around the edge of the mask, he'd seen her smiling. Anger glittered in his deep-set eyes as he turned toward her. He'd have seized her if he hadn't had the reins wound so tightly through and around his fingers. "Now I make you laugh, do I?"

"Why are you acting this way?" she asked him.

"I behave how I wish," he said simply with a swish of the whip. She noticed that though the whip urged the horse forward, his fingers were tight on the reins, holding it back. The animal's ears flicked back and forth with indecision; Erik's apparent conflicting emotions were contagious. Even she felt it: the sudden need to flee conflicting with the desire to stand her ground.

"If it means that much to you, all you need to do is say so," she tried again.

"I thought that's exactly what I was doing." He voice was deep and far away.

"All right then. That settles it. I'll tell Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin that I've been called away suddenly. You may handle it as you wish."

His eyes shone dangerously in the dark. "Ah," he said, and it was a revelation and an accusation at once. "May I, then?"

"Well, what do you want me to say? Is there a right answer? If I say you can stay, it's charity. If I say you can have it, I'm presumptuous. If I say I don't want it, you'll be insulted. I'll stay. I'll go. What is it you want to hear?"

He turned his head away slightly. She was right, perhaps. He would be angry with her no matter what she said. Why was he so angry?

"How about this: you tell me exactly how it is to be done and whether you would like my assistance. I'll do as you wish and not a thing more."

How could he argue?

She reached for his hand, and he was thankful he had worn his gloves tonight, for he didn't want her to touch him.

"Think on it tonight. Tomorrow you shall tell me exactly what to do, and I shall comply." She somehow succeeded in getting one of his gloved hands free of the reins and was holding it. He tugged it away irritably.

"You asked if I was your friend, did you not?"

"Indeed."

"And I said I was, did I not?"

"Indeed."

"Then?"

He pretended to merely glance in her direction, but his eyes sought out hers and stared into them with a piercing intensity. Then she would not try to take it from him? He could _almost_ believe her. If he could believe her in this, could he believe her in other things, then? She had left when he asked her to. She had not removed the blindfold before instructed to do so. She had returned when he asked. She had not exposed him the world above, had not betrayed his confidences as far as he could tell. She had never ridiculed him anyway. Did this mean he could actually—_trust_ her? No. He could never do that... But perhaps she could be of some use in the matter of the sale of the opera house. After all, it would be difficult to make a deal such as that in a mask, and appearing without it was, of course, unthinkable. Yes, it could work then, if she were willing to make arrangements on his behalf. But he would have to be very, _very_ careful.

She held out her hand again, tentatively. This time he took it, and though he cringed a bit, inwardly, he tried to shake his anger, his hesitation, his apprehension. After all, it was a wondrous night, and it had begun nicely enough until... Well, until he'd ruined it, like he'd always managed to destroy or alienate anything of value he encountered... Yet perhaps it--this night, anyway--could be salvaged after all. "My apologies," he said, looking rather in the opposite direction and swishing the whip again. This was twice now he'd had to say something to that effect to her. What was happening to him?

"Think nothing of it," she replied, leaning back out through her make-shift window in his curtain to look up at the stars, and he speculated that only someone with a trick up her sleeve would forgive him so easily. He knew, for he occasionally doled out falsities and appreciated how they worked. Or someone in love, as he had repeatedly forgiven Christine. Or someone full of pity, as the daroga had repeatedly perhaps forgiven him, though he hadn't used that word in particular. He altered his position on the matter. Only someone who had some specific ulterior motivation would forgive him so easily. He wondered what _hers_ was.

The wind picked up and she took down her hair, leaning out again. "You should try it!" she cried out. And as the city decidedly slept, she ventured, "If only for a moment, remove the mask. The air will do you good."

"Perhaps," was all he replied, guardedly, though he considered it something he might someday try, if he could be assured of absolute seclusion. The air was delightful, mask or no mask, and he lightly lashed the horse into a run again until they were pounding down the road as though to leave the darkness of their recent discussion and of their respective pasts behind them.

But it was no use. Without fully paying attention to exactly where he'd been going, he'd taken a recognizable route, slowed the horse again, and trotted down a familiar street: Rue Notre Dame-des-Victores. He realized his mistake too late. It was possible to turn a carriage around here easily, but he simply _could not_ once he realized where he was. Suddenly, it was as though the past month had not happened, as though there was no one in the carriage beside him, as though he were entirely alone, though not a bit lonely, for he was close enough to _feel her presence_.

He was entirely unaware of the entity seated beside him as well as of the passage of time. He stopped the chaise and looked up. And seated there at the window as though she had been waiting for him, was _she_. Ah, she looked as lovely as he remembered, though a bit more wistful, and for a moment he could imagine it was he for whom she wished as she stared out at the moonless sky. A sigh escaped his lips as he stared up at her. How utterly like an angel she was there above him, just out of his reach, tempting him. And suddenly, before he could draw himself away from the window, she looked down and her expression changed entirely. As he lashed the horse into a frenzied gallop toward the opera house, he was very glad he had not taken off the mask to feel the cool night air, for he was once again aware of a presence beside him, as well as of tears running down his face within the mask.

So... where AM I going with this? If you can figure that out you're WAY ahead of me... So why not send me a suggestion? As a matter of fact, I've got about a million hits and, like, two reviews. (Okay... so I exaggerate in both directions, but what do you expect?) So, if you're sitting there thinking (like I often do...) I really hope this story goes such and such a place, why not suggest it? Or if you don't want to do that, how about just saying whether you love it or hate it? Or maybe just hit the review button and type "I was here" just to do it. Or how about "Kilroy was here" if you like? Whatever... Just say SOMETHING!!


	26. Chapter 26: Fear

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

_Original Author's Note at posting:  
Writer's block has miraculously dissipated and now I dare to dream that perhaps I do know where this is going. Of course, only I know, so you'll just have to keep reading. Reviews really encourage me, so if you're one of those whose been reading and not bothering to leave me a message, please at least give me the kindness of two clicks and a couple of keystrokes. It's not like I'm asking you to pledge your life or anything (hey... there's an idea...)_

* * *

Her first reaction was shock. There was no fear, nor was there love. There was only complete disbelief as she stared down at a carriage some distance away that was pulled by a horse that looked vaguely familiar. She could see into the front of the carriage where, facing up at her, as though the being behind it were staring directly at her, a smooth white mask was shining in the faint starlight.

She recognized him easily. She had seen that mask before. It was identical to the one she had burned except that this one was white. Then, in an instant, countless thoughts rushed through her head and the entire span of human emotions passed across her face. She stared unabashedly and absently twisted the ring on her finger, for in spite of her betrothal, she still wore it though whether out of fear or something else she never dared to contemplate.

Then before she could blink, the mask was gone. Or perhaps she _had_ blinked, because it was there and then gone before she could fathom what had become of him and for a moment, she stared in disbelief wondering if she had fallen asleep at the window and dreamed it all.

She backed from the window while something like terror gripped her heart. How had he found her _here_? Silly question. He could find her anywhere! She reached for the candle to extinguish it, then stopped. If he wanted to, he could find her, even in darkness. Perhaps especially in darkness, as darkness was apt to make it harder for her to flee without impairing him, for it was in darkness which he perpetually lived. She cast her eyes about the room. More light? No. She would wake Mamma Valerius, who needed her rest. Besides, more light, less light, it would make no difference if the phantom were behind her, about to wrap his arms around her, embracing her and silencing her with one swift movement. She glanced behind. He was not there. At least, she could not see him there. She whirled around again, then backed to the wall. He could not sneak up behind her this way. Unless... But no! There were no secret passageways in Mamma's place. It was not possible. Erik had not built it, had not designed it, had never even been here—until this night.

Unless she were wrong. She had never suspected he'd built the opera house, either, until she'd learned it. He had done so many impossible things. Who knew what else he might have done. She turned and ran her hands over the wall. There did not seem to be a door here, but there had not seemed to be a door out of the Louis-Philippe room, either, until she had seen it open. Her heart pounded. She did not wish to see this door open. She shut her eyes tight and prayed "Please God..." then she opened them again. Prayer or no prayer, she would not close her eyes. She would not be caught unprepared by him this time, and she held her eyes open wide.

She went to the market nearly every day for fresh produce and bread. Mamma Valerius often slept during the day. It would not have been so hard for Erik with his dark and silent ways to enter the apartment, perhaps make some architectural adjustments... Of course it would be difficult. It would require tools, make noise... but Erik had ways of doing that which seemed impossible. Christine's heart pounded harder still and her skin turned cold and clammy. She checked the wall again, sunk to the floor, crept to the corner. With walls on two sides of her now, she still felt no safer but it seemed the place to be nevertheless. She thought of screaming, but Mamma Valerius would be of no help against a man of Erik's strength. No, her only defense was to do as she'd always done. When he materialized, she would pretend to be glad to see him. It was, perhaps, her only hope of survival.

He had broken his promise! He had let her go! He told her she could have Raoul! She took off the ring and threw it in spite. Wedding present to us both indeed! _I know you love the boy_... and _don't cry anymore_... Alas! He _hadn't_ actually _promised_. Frantic, she crawled to the spot where she had thrown the ring, picked it up, placed it back on her hand, lest she be caught without it. She crawled back to her place in the corner, placed her back to the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Why had he come here? Why had he come here? She asked herself again and again. Why had he sent her away if only to change his mind and come back for her? She could have stayed that night. Yes, that night he had somehow convinced her, or she had somehow convinced herself, that she could stay. Raoul would live, the opera house would be safe, she would sacrifice herself for all she loved in the world. She would live and die with the madman—_that_ night. But in the weeks since then she had dared to dream again of a new life. As they ran off into the night, she and Raoul had planned to find the nearest church, the first priest, a small village, but with the dawn their fears and their urgency passed, and they realized they both had been a bit foolish. First, there was no sense in running off without some money to get started, and Raoul had no shortage of that. But then there was the matter of Count Philippe, and with Philippe dead, Raoul should assume his status. And there was no reason why they could not live at Raoul's country estate, perhaps, while they considered whether they wished to live more modestly. And if they were going to do all this, there was no reason then why they could not plan a lavish wedding. And if they were to plan a lavish wedding, then it would be best Christine stay with Mamma Valerius. (This part was Christine's idea, of course, and Raoul simply had to be persuaded—but he had been; it had been easy, for he could never say no to Christine again!) Yes, in those few weeks since that night Christine had planned much, and now she feared it was to be taken from her in the cruelest manner. "You made your choice, Erik," she whispered to the night. "I don't know how you managed to let me go, but you did. You freed me. You can't come back again for me now."

And yet he had.

It was night. She had been strangely unable to sleep. She had taken a seat by the window, lit a single candle by which she intended to read... but her thoughts continued to stray, and she found herself looking up at the stars. How beautifully they sparkled in that dark sky! What a vast expanse of shimmering points of light in utter darkness. There had been a time, not so long ago when she was afraid of the darkness, but no more. Now the fear was like a memory of a childhood nightmare, while the darkness moved in beauty all around her in the night air. She looked forward to future nights, which she might spend with Raoul outside on the veranda. These were her thoughts as she looked up at the stars. Then a hooded carriage with an open front approached her at a walking pace from her right. She thought nothing of it save that it was very late and that surely the occupant of that carriage and she were the only souls awake this side of the world. It was when the carriage stopped that she bothered to actually take notice of it. It had stopped just a few paces shy of her window so that she could see directly into the front of it where someone was looking up. She glanced down.

Not someone, but some_thing_. A hideous white mask, in expression not unlike the one she had burned which had until then been worn by Erik. Erik! It was Erik watching her! Her eyes rushed across the carriage, the horse, the body of the man in the mask. Oh, horror!

And what was that other strange shadowy form?

And then it was gone!

Christine trembled in fear, for though she could no longer see his face—or rather, the face of his mask—she could not be sure he was gone. She pressed her back tighter against the corner into which she had wedged herself and willed her eyes to remain open, open, open. In the morning when Mamma Valerius found her, she was still wide-eyed and terror-stricken of the monster called Erik.

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Okay, folks, I am desperately begging you to say SOMETHING, even if it's not very nice.

Note added at 6:38 p.m. on 4/6/08: All right, seriously... NOT FAIR. In the last ONE HOUR over 40 people have read this and only one has been kind enough to comment--and that's someone who has been commenting all along. Honestly, folks, what gives? Do you hate it or what?


	27. Chapter 27: Despair

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

Original Note: Hey everyone! Thanks for the reviews. It was GREAT to have more feedback. I sincerely appreciate it. I'm NOT just saying that. So, in special thanks to all those who took time out of their busy schedules to drop a few kind words, here is a special chapter just for you, a bit longer than usual because you all really deserve it. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it.

* * *

The monster called Erik, meanwhile, had arrived at the opera house long before the sun came up and Mamma Valerius discovered Christine. He was there only moments after their eyes met, for he snapped the whip harder and harder at the horse until the poor beast nearly beat its hooves into the cobbles of the street under his merciless hand. Erik said not a word as he released the animal into the stables without care and left the carriage just within the doors. He turned and strode, bent under heavy feelings, head hanging, down the passageway, from which he had emerged almost light-hearted hours earlier.

The woman, no longer a companion, merely glanced at the horse and carriage. She would return to take care of that just as soon as...

She rushed close behind him, worried, only to reach the door to the room containing a coffin and an organ a moment too late. She reached the threshold just as the door slammed shut, and she did not need to try the knob to know that it was locked. She stood rigidly outside straining to hear through the silence within. Something was terribly wrong and she was not too foolish to guess. She dared not say a word lest things become worse. When the terrible music emerged, she was not sure whether they had or not.

She crossed the room and sat on the sofa in the parlor. She quickly became bored, found a book and tried to read. The music, which sounded like one long sob, distracted her. She paced the floor.

Finally, she found pen and paper and composed a brief letter.

_Erik_

_If you emerge before I return, please know that I have  
gone only for supplies. I have much business to attend  
to, and as it seems you have returned to your work, perhaps  
I should take this opportunity attend to mine as well. I will  
be readily available to speak with you when you wish. If  
you need to contact me before I return, I can be reached  
at the address below_

She signed her name with a flourish and carefully penned the address of the hotel beneath it. Her letter was short and simple as though she had not noticed his state of mind. She had seen the gleam in his eye in the carriage and dared not arouse his anger. She hoped he would read the letter _before _he tore it to shreds.

She crept to the stable, briefly ran her hands over the horse's legs to ensure they'd not injured the animal. She stroked the creature's body and back. Poor animal, she thought. But it had been somewhat fortunate, for Erik's whip had not made any deep gashes, amazingly. The animal fairly steamed in the cool air, and Elizabeth contemplated walking up and down the aisles of the Opera stables. Moving the carriage would have required re-harnessing the horse, which seemed beyond cruel, so she abandoned the idea entirely for the moment and merely tended to the horse. By the time she left the cellar it was daylight and, concerned at the possibility of being seen, she decided not to return until after dusk. This would give her some time to rest as well as the opportunity to read without the distraction of the horrifying music.

At the hotel she sat at her small table and composed another letter.

_My Dear Wilhelm,_

_I hope this letter finds you doing well. I apologize for my  
failure to write sooner. I have been having a wonderfully  
interesting time. My travels have led me to Paris, which is  
everything you said it would be and more. Strangely, I have  
encountered quite an interesting case while here as well,  
and I daresay the subject is of rather a personal interest to  
me. I therefore hope to remain here for such time that maximum  
benefit is reached or until I determine I can be of no benefit  
whatever. If you have cases that you wish to have me review  
or articles needing proofreading, please send them to me here  
at my temporary residence, the inn whose address this letter  
bears. Finally, if the second volume has arrived which I requested  
from Austria, will you please kindly forward it to me? I wish to begin  
my study of it immediately._

_Sincerest Regards,_

_Elizabeth_

That would explain away her absence for a time. But how long _would_ she be here?

She spent the afternoon sipping tea on the balcony while reading from a large text. By the light of day, the evening before was quite different than it had seemed at the time. Contrary to what he said, it was not, in fact _his_ opera house, nor was it hers. What they had done the night before was tantamount to theft. As to whether he was in any way serious regarding his possible purchase of same was irrelevant, as he seemed in no condition to care for himself, let alone enter into any type of legally binding contract!

She reflected on the evening in its entirety. She had let go of the clinical focus she'd had when she suggested the carriage ride. Her goal had been to coax him out into the world. Instead, she'd allowed herself to get sucked into his. At least, she had convinced herself that that had been her goal and that she's simply lost sight of it somewhere that evening, but she had also been excited by the possibility, and she had enjoyed their time together, until it turned suddenly. What had changed him so suddenly? She thought back on the wild run up the passageway and into the carriage, the twists and turns they'd taken to reach the river, the beautiful silence they'd enjoyed until something took hold of him. Then there was the argument, his almost threatening demeanor, his sudden changes of mood and finally the desperate race back after their strange momentary stop. Oh no, last night had not been a success at all. Indeed, what _had_ she been thinking?

As the daylight edged toward evening she made a brief note to herself in a small book she carried that she should always remember never to wrap herself so entirely in a case that she lose herself. To do so would be to give up everything she had gained over the past fifteen years. Personal attention to another was important, but not at the sacrifice of self. Consider Wilhelm! Had he allowed himself to become so wrapped up in her that he could not focus on anything else, he would have but one patient, and she would still be in the asylum! She thought on Erik with compassion, but briefly. She had no information, so she could only speculate. Could the race back have been about the matter of the opera house again? No, that had been resolved, she thought. All was well—or at least bearable—until the carriage stopped momentarily beneath a lighted window. She had not been able to see much as she was on the wrong side of the carriage. She noticed the change in him, gauged his reaction from the turn of his head, for he did not face her, and even if he had, he'd been masked. Whatever changed his mood so suddenly had something to do with that window, though what lay behind it was difficult to speculate. Was it a place where he had lived? Did he associate it with childhood? Was it someone he knew? The opera singer he had loved? A dangerous enemy or a much-loathed tormentor? No matter, she supposed, for she could ask him when he finally emerged, unless he did something reckless in the meantime. Meanwhile, she recorded as much as she could remember being as cryptic as possible lest anyone ever read her notes.

At last it was dark and she knew she'd best return since her note said that she would. She would be waiting on the sofa in the parlor when he emerged. She took a taxi to a cafe a few blocks from the opera house and then walked the remaining distance, located the secret entrance under cover of darkness and made her way up the passage once more.

Everything was as she'd left it. _Exactly_ as she had left it. The parlor was undisturbed, as were the kitchen, the library, the Louis-Philippe room, and the door to _that_ room. The sorrowful sounds continued at the same volume, the same intensity. Had he been at it the whole time she'd been gone?

Terrible sounds like the wailing of a thousand tortured souls came forth from the closed door and Elizabeth felt tempted to cover her ears, though at the same time she knew that mere hands were not enough to keep the mournful sounds out. She felt herself being dragged down by the music even as she tried to put together something to eat for herself and the man behind the door. She ate in utter despair, then carried a tray to the door. She hesitated. To knock was to arouse his anger. To arouse his anger was, well, to incur his wrath, which she strongly suspected was fierce. She had experienced it once, yes, but he had been weak, near death. Even then he had lifted her from the floor then thrown her down against it once more, dragged her across the room, chained her down, stood over her mockingly... She dared not imagine what he might be like when enraged in better health. Perhaps it was best not to be here at all. She could leave another letter suggesting he come for her when he wanted to speak to her. No—_if_ he wanted to speak with her, for there could be no certainty anymore. Yet emerging to an empty room might be all the more damaging. She stood, indecisively and noticed something had changed. What was it? She looked around. The room was as it should be and... Oh! The wailing of the music had stopped. She shifted the tray to one hand, knocked softly, waited. No response. "Supper when you want it," she said simply and placed the tray on the floor. She shut herself up in the Louis-Philippe room leaving the door fully closed but unlocked. She read until she fell asleep.

The next few days passed without event. Most mornings Elizabeth found supper as she had left it on the tray outside his door and she feared he were starving himself again. She marveled that he could play so ferociously with no nourishment and wondered what the effects might be. Fatigue and malnourishment undoubtedly lead to irritability and depression, and he was already suffering from both of these. She shuddered to think of the pit he was digging himself and it occurred to her that she had not the resources to pull him from it. She faltered. She needed Wilhelm to help her but she could not send for him. He would kill her—Erik would. He would surely kill her and Wilhelm both if she tried something like that. She had stumbled here by accident, managed to befriend him a bit and this was her salvation. She had no right to introduce another; she _could not_. Yet she could not do this alone! She didn't have the knowledge or the skills. She would fail at this, not only failing to prove her point but perhaps failing to save this life, and for that she could not forgive herself.

Elizabeth tried to drown out the notes of the dirges next door to her with the written word of Sigmund Freud, but it was no use. The melancholia was thick and hung in the air like fog that even an untold number of defense mechanisms could not dissipate. Often it continued through the night and pervaded her dreams turning them to nightmares of rejection and isolation. She felt weighted down as though wearing a heavy anchor about her neck. She was swimming in a sea of sorrow, her strokes tiring and the depths beckoning her. She was already in over her head, and she felt the murky waters close above her.

The brief periods when the music stopped were all that sustained her. Perhaps he was resting, even sleeping. Or perhaps trying to eat some of the food she had left on the tray outside his door. Whichever of these it was, she told herself, any of them was better than neglecting all of them. Still, she could not bear the music. She chose her words carefully.

_My Dear Erik,_

_I have been terribly worried about you these past few days,  
but it is obvious that you prefer to be alone at present or you  
would have sought me out. You will find me, if you wish to,  
at the hotel where my belongings have been stored. Feel free  
to send a message or visit me at any time. Because I know  
you do not like to go out, I will stop by occasionally as well  
unless you send word you wish me not to. Please do not be  
angry with me for my departure. I am doing that which I  
surmise you wish, and I apologize if I have supposed incorrectly._

_Always your friend,_

_Elizabeth_

She wedged her message between the door and the frame so it would fall loose when he opened the door. He could not possibly miss it if he opened the door during one of those brief periods when he stopped playing.

Little could she have known what those periods really were. For though he tolerated her, had even (though he was loathe to admit it) come to enjoy her company, he had never trusted anyone entirely, and she was yet to even come close. Naturally, there were other passageways about which she knew nothing, and it was through one of these passageways, the exit of which was contained _within his room_, that he departed when the music stopped. And night after night he returned to the same spot from which he had seen _her,_ to gaze up at her in wonder and longing.

We cannot fault him for this, for in his sorrow, he could not have not have known the effect he was causing on the girl in behind that apartment window. Beneath it each night in the shadows, he was even _proud_ of his newfound self-restraint. He had not approached her, had not spoken to her, _certainly_ had not attempted to abduct her or even _persuade_ her. No, he simply desired to gaze upon her, as he had not beheld her in so long!

In his own agony, he could not have known that hers was greater still. Unless he had entered the apartment, which he did not, he could not have known that Christine had become but a hollow shell, a shadow of her former self, a woman plagued by nightmares and visions.

Mamma Valerius had sent for Raoul, who had come immediately. Naturally, Erik could not have known of this either, for it occurred during the day and he generally spent but a few moments each evening beneath the window gazing up. He was frequently fortunate enough to catch sight of her, for she had taken to keeping watch out the window lest she be taken by surprise. Erik took care to vanish into the shadows whenever the shadows moved behind her indicating that another person was approaching, and in this way when Christine would cry out to Mamma Valerius—and later to Raoul—that there he was again, watching her, they would look out and see absolutely nothing there. And when she finally fell asleep, they discussed what to do in hushed tones, lest they wake her.

On one of the many evenings on which Christine pointed out the window crying out in dumb shock that there he was, there he is, it is he, Erik, the Phantom, the Angel, the monster—come for her once again, Raoul calmly opened up a folded publication several weeks old. He carried it to the window, placed it in front of her and urged her to look. "I'll watch the window my sweet," he whispered. "If anyone comes, surely I'll see whomever—" and he hushed her when she started to argue "But you never see him when I do!" and he pointed to a place in the publication and insisted she read. "Look there, Christine. Only three little words. Surely you can tear your eyes away from the street below for only a moment to read these three little words..."

Surely he had gone mad! What three little words could possibly offer her any consolation at a time like this? No other words than perhaps Erik is dead! And there they were. _Erik is dead._ Was this a trick? Entirely forgetting to watch the window she raised her eyes to Raoul's, her head tilted far to one side, a confused expression on her face.

"You see now, Christine? He is dead. He cannot harm you, for he is _dead_. And look here now. Look at the date here." He rearranged the _Epoque_ so to show its front cover. "See there?" he said, pointing. "See the date? That's nearly two months ago. He has been dead all this time, so it is not at all possible that he has been coming here nightly to disturb you." He smiled into her eyes, waiting for the relief to spread across her face, but relief did not come. Confusion turned to surprise, then anger.

"You _knew_ about this?"

"Yes, my sweet."

"All this time?"

"Of course, my darling."

"And you did not tell me?" her voice increased in both volume and pitch, and Raoul sought to calm her.

"I didn't wish to disturb you, my love. I feared you might feel guilty, though it's no fault of yours whatever has become of him. I know there were times you wished to spare him pain, and I feared you would feel—"

"What can you know of what I feel?" she screamed, turning from him. "What can you know of anything at all save your own stupid, pitiful needs?" She faced him again. "It is you who have done this to me then, Raoul! It is you who have put this curse upon me! Now I shall suffer every day of my life until it ends for I have not kept my promise to him!" She broke into a wail and Raoul and Mamma Valerius exchanged worried glances.

"I, love?" he managed.

"Raoul, oh Raoul, how can I make you understand? I made a promise. A _promise_, don't you see?" and with that she ripped the ring from her hand and held it out to him. "That message was intended _for me_. It was so simple all I had to do. I was to go there, return his ring and bury him with his masterpiece. Was that so much to ask after all he'd done for me?"

"All he'd done for you? Captured you, frightened you, tortured you, threatened you, tried to kill me to keep me from you, forced you—"

"That's enough, Raoul! I won't hear it." She shoved the ring back onto her hand. "I won't hear you say these things. It's true he did all those things, and I forgave him it. He also freed me and gave me to you, and for _that _you owe him dearly. _Look _how you have repaid him! And now _I _am to be haunted forever more by his ghost. If you found him fearsome in life, just wait until you see him in death!" and the remainder she spoke in a quieter more contemplative tone, staring vacuously into the vacant space in the center of the room. "It makes sense, actually. It explains so much—why he hasn't spoken a word to me, nor come inside, nor tried to touch me. Perhaps from the world beyond he cannot quite reach me, yet he comes anyway, in longing..."

Raoul looked wide-eyed at Mamma Valerius whose hands were clasped across her mouth in belief. "Do not believe a word of this, Madame. She has taken fright at something she's seen, that's all. I'll send for the doctor. There is no ghost. There never was a ghost. All the time I was sure there was never a ghost, and just when I had proved he was but a man, now she has turned him into a ghost again. But there is no coming back from the world beyond, else where is my brother? Dare you suggest that this monster's feelings for Christine are stronger than those my dear brother held for me? Dare _you_ believe _that_?" These last four words he spoke through clenched teeth directly into Christine's face, and she turned away in tears.

Raoul made the necessary arrangements. The doctor would examine Christine in the morning. Christine stared despondently into emptiness while Mamma Valerius wept openly and Raoul did his utmost to console her. And when Mamma Valerius went to bed, Raoul wept alone that though the fiend was dead at last, he still possessed the mind of his Little Lotte.

I really hope you liked this chapter. Please let me know if you did or not. It's SUCH motivation!


	28. Chapter 28: Whole

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

Original message: Greetings, again everyone! Remember when I said that I was not going to be able to post so often anymore? Well, I guess I lied because it seems there's a new chapter every night. Special thanks to all of you who are so encouraging--whether you've been outright reviewing or just PMing me your thoughts, I appreciate every single response I get. I want to say thank you especially to MadLizzy and Hot4Gerry for their literally _constant_ encouragement. Additionally, Hot4Gerry, the end of this chapter is especially for you. (Well, okay... I guess it was going to happen anyway, but I thought of your last post and your post to chapter 25 while I was writing it, so I really hope you enjoy it.)

* * *

The dew had not yet evaporated from the window box flowers early that morning when the doctor came to the Valerius apartment to examine poor Christine. The sunlight was slanting through the window onto her face, for she had insisted they leave her by the window all night "lest I be taken by surprise." She at last closed her eyes and lay her head on the windowsill, letting the sun's rays caress her cheek. Mamma Valerius and Raoul had remained in the room with her and slept only fitfully. It showed in their eyes when the doctor arrived.

There were, of course, no window box flowers in the underground lair, nor any sunlight to comfort the source of her private torment, who now tormented himself, as well. Something had happened last night, he had perceived it, for the shadows in the window flickered and three forms became discernable. Raoul then? He was still around and yet they were not yet married? What could this mean? He had crept closer, tried to examine their faces in the candlelight. There was anger in her eyes and she directed it unswervingly at him—at Raoul!—who had previously been the object of her affections! Dare he hope? Dare he dream? But something _else_ permeated the air besides anger, and this other thing descended even to the sidewalk beneath the apartment where poor Erik stood. Tangible. Palpable. What was it?

"What is it?" Raoul was asking as he bent over Mamma Valerius as she bent over the doctor, who in turn bent over Christine. The doctor stood up suddenly and the collision that ensued would have been amusing had the reason they were all gathered about in such close proximity not been so dire. "I'm afraid there is no physical cause whatever," began the kindly old doctor.

"If there is no cause," began Raoul, "then why say that you are afraid? And yet there must _be_ a cause, for if there is no cause, then she is not ill! And she clearly—" The old doctor attempted to silence him by holding his hand up, palm outward. Raoul grasped it. "What _is_ it then?" he almost whispered.

What was it? wondered Erik. What was that sensation he'd felt beneath her window? It was not his feelings for her, nor hers for him. It was not anger, nor fear, nor loathing, nor love. Not an emotion at all. No, it was more like a darkening of the very air, a thickening of the atmosphere, an ionization of the atoms of the molecules of the air between them, around them, and within them. It chilled him, yet hung in the air like humidity simultaneously. He couldn't clearly define it...

"I can't clearly determine the cause, though fright is certainly a factor. I fear her problem lies entirely in her mind—" here Mamma Valerius began weeping and Raoul fought to keep his composure "but you are fortunate—"

"Fortunate!" Raoul burst out before the doctor could silence him again.

"—that Doctor Charcot, who is much reknown in dealing with ailments of this kind may be able to see her. Shall I inquire?"

"Ailments of this kind? You just said there was nothing wrong with her!" Raoul struggled to stay focused.

Christine stirred. "I don't need a doctor, Raoul," she murmured. "I need a priest. We need a priest to go to the opera house. Someone needs to do what I haven't done. If he rests in peace..." she trailed off into tears. "It's no use. Burial or no burial, he'll never have peace." She sobbed openly and the doctor looked from Raoul to Mamma Valerius and back to Raoul.

"I didn't say there was nothing ailing her. I think it's clear that something is. Please, Vicomte, allow me to send for Dr. Charcot."

Raoul was struggling to calm Christine who was becoming still more hysterical. "Yes, yes, whatever," he said.

"We'll... likely need to take her somewhere... for her own safety, you see."

Raoul stared at him. Take her? Where? Was it necessary? But Mamma Valerius was crying, murmuring, "Yes, yes..." through her tears while Christine was saying in a voice that sounded far too matter-of-fact for one with that deranged stare in her eyes "A priest, Raoul. Not a doctor. A _priest._"

"Whatever you think is best, doctor," he said at last, and she cast her eyes up at him and murmured his name in protest.

Charcot came at midday, performed his examination and tentatively reached the same conclusion. He remained and asked numerous questions of all members of the doleful trio until he felt quite certain he understood the events of the past few months entirely. He made only one error. _He accepted unequivocally Raoul's statement of Erik's death_.

Shortly after Doctor Charcot arrived, the rain began to fall, and it continued throughout the afternoon and into the evening. When they took Christine away, it was raining still, though she seemed wholly oblivious and only murmured that if they must take her to do so quickly before it got any darker, lest the be apprehended by the ghost on their journey.

Across town, Elizabeth looked up from writing her reading and stared out at the rain slanting down outside her windowpane and decided to brave the damp drizzle for tea—or perhaps coffee, ever so much more popular here—in the company of others, even if they were strangers, for she was feeling out of sorts. Usually content to be alone with her thoughts, she found it far too quiet now and yearned for... something. In the meantime, far beneath the city, a dark figure prepared to make his evening visit to the surface.

When he arrived at his usual place that night, the strange sensation was stronger still. She was not in her place by the window, nor was the candle lit. She no longer watched for him, no longer waited. It was finished. He never should have come here in the first place, he thought. It was finished months ago. If it hadn't been for that wrong turn... and yet it wasn't a wrong turn exactly. What had happened that night? It was as though a part of his mind were working without his conscious consent. He had not purposely turned down that street, and yet he had found her quite accurately without meaning to. What a terrible mistake! How long had it been? A week? Had he come here every night? Yes. And had she seen him? It seemed to him that their eyes had made contact, for she often stared, unmoving, at the place where he was standing, her gaze fixed, unwavering. It wasn't quite the same as it had been, though, to see her without hearing her voice. And even if he could have heard her, it wouldn't have been the same without being able to touch her. And even if... he reached out a trembling hand... even if he could touch her once more, something told him it still just wouldn't be the same. She hadn't kept her promise. She hadn't returned for him. Of course, he hadn't kept his promise, either. He was still alive. But it didn't matter. It simply _was not the same_.

He glided into the shadows. Footsteps were approaching. Raoul. For a moment, Erik almost pitied him, for he was stooped shouldered, red eyed, and haggard as though having had a near brush with death or more than a week of sleepless nights. He passed a hand across his eyes, trudged to the door and dragged himself inside. She had left him, then, and now he knew what that pain truly was. If there hadn't been so much hatred between them, Erik might have considered them brothers in their grief and longing.

But this was her home, not his. If she had quit him, why was he reentering the house? How did he come and go he pleased, as though it were his home as well? And the old woman greeted him! Before he could consider the possible consequences of his actions, he had reverted to his furtive ways and located a position from which he could observe and listen undetected.

"How is she?" he old woman asked anxiously.

"She's sleeping," he responded miserably.

"That's good, isn't it?"

"They sedated her."

"Well, if it'll help her sleep... It's no wonder she's seeing visions. Hasn't slept in a week, has she?"

"How should I know?" The young man slumped into a chair, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he apologized almost instantly for his anger. "This is just too much. I couldn't bear it when they bound her."

Erik became aware that he was grinding his teeth together and tried to stop. They had bound her? And this man had stood idly by and "couldn't bear it?" He hadn't intervened?

"And only a week before we were to be wed!" Raoul cried in agony as the old woman tried to comfort him.

Then they were still betrothed! And yet he had not interfered when someone took action to bind her? He had been so enraged when Erik had dared to bind her, even though that had been for her own good—for she had tried to kill herself! And as the rain slanted down around him, Erik put the two thoughts together and in this manner discovered her fate. She hadn't left Raoul at all; she had been bound and drugged _for her own good_. Where else could she be but— No, it couldn't be. And yet, it was, for Raoul was casually mentioning the names of various doctors and talking about forms of hysteria, possible causes, possible treatments, the fact that the wedding was to be postponed for there was no chance of recovery that fast. Elizabeth's words came back to him— _the dregs of society, people that other people lock up so they won't have to deal with their very existence, people who are more like animals than people at all._ He trembled. He was on the brink of rushing to the place to execute a rapid and precise rescue (for he had easily memorized the layout of the city years before) when he heard his name being mentioned and the blame being laid. It was he who had driven her mad; he could not possibly drive her madness away.

He turned and retraced his steps slowly through the rain like a lost soul. He had done this to her. He could not possibly repair the damage now. What a monster he was, indeed. Everything he touched, everything he cared about, even everything upon which he _turned his gaze_ turned to ruins in an instant and he was powerless to reverse it.

He passed a number of people on the street, hurrying to take shelter from the rain. It is likely that his mask and cloak provided enough coverage that no one noticed him. Indeed, it is likely that the pedestrians' heads were so bent to keep their faces from the rain that they would have not noticed his face if he'd bared it to them anyway. But it is more significant to note that he did not think of his cloak or mask and merely walked past them, his eyes on the ground, scarcely noticing the rain soaking his cloak through. He was, in fact, more than halfway up the Rue Scribe passageway when he recalled that he'd left the other way, that his door would be locked from the outside, and that Elizabeth would see him come in, though she was entirely unaware he'd left. He was perplexed, however, to find the house on the lake empty. But there was a tray of food outside his door and paper wedged into the doorjamb. Elizabeth had placed a note there. Elizabeth, who would know what could be done to help Christine!

It was late when Elizabeth returned to her room at the hotel for when she left the cafe she found herself standing outside in a soft rain for no reason that was readily evident to her conscious mind. She turned her face upward to watch the clouds as they rolled across the sky, over the moon, and onward. It was a storm both without and within, for though she had escaped the sorrowful music, she still wrestled with dark emotions and sought to explain them to herself. She had attempted to aid someone and failed. She felt at a loss as to what would be beneficial. The problem was two-fold. First, she could not ease his grief at all. Second, this made her question herself, whether she should go on with her plans for her future or merely return to Germany and resume her work as an assistant. Perhaps she had been wrong all along... The weather had suddenly turned gray, which could easily be a factor in her sorrow, though only if another cause preempted it. She had no one to talk to. Oh, certainly there were people in the cafe, but she did not know them. Of course, one has only to begin speaking to get to know another, but she had no desire at present. Naturally, she had friends at home to which she could return. But she missed the odd conversations with Erik, the familiarity of sitting across from him at breakfast, the peculiarity of the way he looked at the world and quite simply how different he was from everyone else she had ever encountered. She thought back on their time together and wondered whether she should have behaved differently, acted a little more pleased with what might have been inhibited attempts to impress her.

What a strange journey this had been! Beginning with the decent into the depths of the opera house, as though descending into the belly of the earth itself, Elizabeth had sensed a change in herself. While her mind remained unchanged, it was as though a strange new presence joined her from within. She had felt wildly alive, giddy, almost childlike. Then there was horror, fright, compassion, fear again, then release and relief. _Something_ had awakened within her and it was _that entity_ that profoundly felt his absence.

Upon entering the cafe this evening, effectively surrounding herself with "normal" people after having gazed upon only him for so long, she found herself startled by their appearances and had to remind herself "this is _normal_" and "this is how _I_ look." As she exited the cafe, she stopped to look at her reflection in the window of the door. Yes. She looked like _them_. She spent the walk home considering the customs and traditions associated with appearance, feeling more confused than ever. When she passed a thick paned window that distorted her reflection, she smiled. If everyone looked _that_ way, she thought... And at last when she arrived, she was entirely worn out with contemplation.

She entered the bathroom, hung her soaking dress to dry, took her hair down, dried her body and her hair, dressed in a simple but elegant silk nightgown, washed her face. It would feel good to sleep. She would rethink things in the morning. Everything would seem better by the light of day. As she started across the room a shadow moved beside her, then behind her. Before she could react, his hand was over her mouth, his arm about her waist. "Silence," he whispered.

Panicked she fought for but an instant, then froze. He was masked in black, and cloaked. He was virtually undetectable in the shadows. Had he not come up behind her so suddenly, she would have actually been happy to see him. She held perfectly still. Having recognized his voice, she felt no fear. When he was confident she would remain silent, he slowly pulled his hand away.

"Erik!" she breathed in the lightest of whispers. "What a way to announce your presence!"

His trepidation at the possibility of discovery kept his voice a soft. "I could not risk being seen. It would not have prudent to spend time knocking."

She did not bother to disguise her joy at seeing him. "How _are_ you?" she whispered, reaching for him. "I was worried." But he held out a hand to stop her, turned away with a hand to the eyes of his mask, and she sunk to sit on the nearby bed in confusion.

He paced the floor. She sensed he was working up to something important, but she was far too tired for analysis. She watched his movements back and forth until she felt sure she would be hypnotized and stopped him. "Just tell me!" she hissed, and she glanced toward the window only to see that he had already drawn the drapes tightly closed.

"Christine—" he began, and she nodded.

"Sit," she insisted, and he did—in the chair at the small table where she did her writing. "Now," she shifted her position on the bed bringing her feet under her and only then remembering that she was wearing her nightgown. She blushed in the lamplight; even when she stayed in his home, she always dressed before she emerged from the room he'd lent her. But he hadn't seemed to notice, so she continued. "Tell me about Christine."

"That evening in the carriage," he said with remarkable control, "I saw her. In the window."

"Ah." It was as she had suspected.

He paused for thought. This visit had not been planned; it had been an act of desperation. How to explain it was perhaps more distressing still. "I was, shall we say—overcome—with emotion at seeing her. This is why I returned to—well, to working on _Don Juan_, about which I have not told you before, and which is of no immediate relevance at present. I... intended to explain this to you, but it was not... _convenient_ at the time. I have... visited her every evening. No. Visited is the wrong word. I have observed her. In the same way I did that evening, though I went _without_ the carriage."

She nodded in the dim lamplight.

"Whether she had seen me or not I was not certain at first, though she appeared to look in my direction. But this night..." he paused. She could almost hear him collecting his thoughts in the silence. "This night, she is gone." He paused, in great pain. "It is my fault," he tried again. "No, I did not harm her—or at least, I did not intend to. No, it is not how it sounds. I did not touch her, speak to her, even. I did nothing. Yet the boy—there is a boy, you see. A loathsome boy, in my opinion, but she loves him. Yes, she loves him. As she could never love me. But that is not relevant at the moment, either. Oh, that I could ever consider that not to be relevant! But don't you understand? They have taken her away... They say she has visions. They say she does not sleep. They have bound her and sedated her and given her to a doctor to take away—" and here he stopped, for he could say no more.

Elizabeth rose from the bed as though in a dream and closed the space between them. She reached for the cloaked figure, embraced him, found that he was soaked through from the rain. She murmured something about it, but he gripped her shoulders and held her at arms length away. "Elizabeth," he said, and it was the second time he had ever spoken her name. "Though I am not worthy to ask it, I am begging for your help. I know I do not deserve your aid, but I have no one else and nowhere else to turn. Do it not to provide relief to this monster, but to the poor sweet child who once pitied him and whom he has perhaps destroyed." He raised his eyes and looked into hers looked through the mask. There were no tears for the moment, but pain and guilt filled the golden orbs. "Find a way to save her," he begged "and I will lay all my treasure at your feet."

She was overcome entirely by the selflessness of his request. He did not want her for himself; he wanted only for her to be well. He blamed himself and he suffered, yet he did not ask help for himself, only for her. She gaze into his eyes, but he turned them downward.

"Erik," she whispered, placing her hand where his cheek would have been if the mask had not separated them and attempting to turn his gaze toward hers. "Keep your wealth," she said as she desperately sought out his eyes "for the real treasure is your_self_."

Tears flowed silently from the eyeholes of the mask. Dare he believe that?

"Your words, your _tears_," she whispered, "they are enough. I will do whatever I can for her _and for you_, for you _are_ worthy, far more than you are able to feel."

He was sobbing now, but she held his masked face in her two hands and forced him to meet her eyes. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, and he noticed she did not place the word "poor" between them. Then his arms were suddenly around her and he was weeping into the silk of the bosom of her nightgown. And _she_ was whole again.

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Oh yeah... and once upon a time there was an amateur writer who was so tormented in her youth by people who stole her notebooks and read them aloud in a mocking tone that she came to think that her writing was loathsome and horrifying so she hid it away from the world. If only, however, some kind readers would leave encouraging reviews, she might someday be able to face the light of day rather than feel the need to always hide in shadow... (In other words, please review!!)


	29. Chapter 29: Patients

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

Note at original posting:  
20 percent of people who read the last chapter reviewed, (and there was much rejoicing on the part of your humble and most grateful author). The rest of you don't care about my poor poor pitiful self esteem. :sniff: Just kidding.

Seriously, thanks for the reviews folks. And I willingly admit THIS chapter is not my BEST work... but I needed it to get from where we were to where we're going. We do all want to get there, right? So please help me make this chapter better. Suggestions are welcome either by review or PM.

* * *

When she awoke in the morning Elizabeth nearly stepped on the man sleeping on her floor and her heart flooded with a mixture of emotions. Why was he on the floor? was her first thought. She trusted him. It wasn't as if… And _still_ in the mask? _And_ the cloak? The _wet_ cloak? She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. He will be the death of me, she thought, if he is not the death of himself first. All in black, covered completely including his face, he could have passed for a pile of old clothing, a heap of rubbish, certainly anything but a human being.

She stepped neatly over him and went to get dressed. Today was to be a peculiar day, she knew, for though she slept, what she had promised to do had not left her mind and was the first thought that occurred to her when she opened her eyes. She peeked out the window. At least the rain had stopped, she thought. The sky was still dark, but for now anyway, the clouds were holding the rain in. She crossed the room to get her brush and hairpins, then crossed again to the mirror. Back for her stockings, then back again to the closet she went, each time glancing down and all the while trying to determine whether it would be more unkind to wake him than to leave him there. Perhaps she could persuade him to rest in the bed while she went out… Despite the clouds, it was far too light outside to go out dressed as he was...

It was time for breakfast. In a perfect world, she thought, she would wake him and they would go to the café like any two friends who were still trying to determine whether all they were was friends. She allowed herself a moment to bask in this insane fantasy of the entire world moving around them as though he were any ordinary human being and she desperately wished it were so. Of course, she thought with rue, if he were entirely ordinary, odds were she never would have encountered him in the first place considering how they'd met. She swept her hair back and as she did so, tried to sweep such thoughts from her mind. She needed to focus today. She pinned her hair up neatly and did the same with her emotions. She coated her lips with her trademark red shade—her very own mask of sorts, she thought. Then she stooped to wake him. His breathing was shallow and raspy. She closed her eyes, gathered her strength, listened more carefully, then pushed back the collar of the cold, wet cloak and placed her hand on his skin. Like flames to the touch. It was going to be a _very_ long day she decided. She shook his shoulder, lifted his head, persuaded him to open his eyes. They were rheumy and red. Damn.

"Erik!" she cried desperately, giving herself over to emotion yet again as she seemed to do more often in his presence than ever before in her life, save perhaps that strange period after the death of Jacob. "Erik, get up now. Get _out_ of these wet clothes and _into_ this bed this instant. Listen to me. I need you awake and I need you well. Has it occurred to you that I don't even know her _last name_?" At this he was suddenly awake, dragging himself to a sitting position leaning against her bed for support, looking about warily.

"Daaé" he told her simply and slowly closed his eyes again.

She slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands and sighed. "I need more than that, Erik. Her name. His name. Everyone's names. The doctors. The hospital or asylum or—wherever—they've taken her. I need details if you have them. Suspicions if you don't. I need—God, Erik, I don't even remember where they _live_! I was there but _once_!"

He placed a hand over his eyes and pressed. The interior of the lids burned like fire. "All right" he muttered, then coughed, first once, then doubling over into a fit of dry rasping barks.

"What have you done to yourself?" she reached for him, but he staggered up.

"Nothing. I am fine. It is of no consequence. Get us a taxi. I will accompany you and wait outside."

"Impossible!"

"I have frequently done the impossible."

She wrung her hands. "Would it have been so hard to remove the wet cloak?" she complained? "Or to take a blanket from the bed?" He was utterly confused. He'd caused her no trouble at all, save for showing up so late at night and asking the near impossible of her. Well, perhaps that was considerable trouble after all, but how had the wet cloak harmed _her_? It was no matter now, though. He would do as she asked, for she had agreed to his request, his plea, his—had he begged her? He had offered her the world. He would owe her _everything_.

She interrogated him. She desperately needed details. He tried to focus. His eyes burned. His head throbbed. The world spun. His chest made a peculiar wheezing sound when he inhaled. Curiously, he drew an experimental deep breath which he instantly expelled in another fit of coughing. Her arms were around him again, but he sensed urgency rather than affection. Her ear was pressed against his back and when she drew away, her eyes were troubled.

"It is of no consequence," he told her again, carefully, lest he should cough again. He painstakingly gave her directions and miserably agreed to wait there. Yes, he would try to rest, he promised. (Try! he thought. He could scarcely keep his eyes open!) Certainly, he would remove the wet clothing—after she was gone, of course, and why was she so concerned? Yes, he would remain there until she returned, even should it take all day—which it probably would, she warned.

She had not exaggerated in the least.

She had very poor luck with Dr. Charcot who, though he was acquainted with Wilhelm, had of course, never heard of her. Professional courtesy would get her nowhere without Wilhelm and in the time it would take to send for him, even assuming he could come, it would likely be too late, for Elizabeth firmly believed that such places caused more mental instability than they cured, not from professional practice but from personal experience. She regularly carried letters from Wilhelm, which she presented at various locations to vouch for her identity and her connection to him, but this was a different matter entirely. This was not Wilhelm's patient, and there had been no prior consultation. She was not about to apply to work and spend months proving herself while the girl slowly slipped further and further into oblivion.

Her letters had gotten her in the door, however, and as far as Dr. Charcot's office. She had an opportunity to look up and down the halls of the building, to get a feel for the layout, the security, the level of care. She was firmly resolved, however, for if the girl was someone special enough to matter to Erik, she must be quite singular indeed. The thought of simply taking the girl occurred to her, and she attributed it to Erik's influence. Such thoughts simply would not do. First, it would require Erik's assistance. Impossible. Even if he were well, which he clearly was not, he was the cause of the poor girl's misery in the first place. It could drive her over the brink. She shook the thought from her mind without any serious consideration. There were far easier ways to remove someone from such a place. She would start with the family.

She traveled to their home, where she had somewhat better luck, at least at first. Mamma Valérius was such a kind soul she probably would have opened the door to anyone, perhaps even Erik, as her eyesight was not so good anymore and her mind was only somewhat intact. The two were conversing quietly in the modest living area when Raoul staggered in.

He might have ignored their guest entirely, such was his state of mind, had she not stood and quietly introduced herself. Even so, he mumbled a greeting and seemed about to dismiss her presence until she stated quite plainly "I've come about Christine."

"Christine? What can you possibly know about Christine?"

"Please. You should sit down."

She sat. He paced. She found the scene disturbingly familiar. All the wild emotions this girl evoked! Elizabeth could scarcely wait to meet her. After a time Mamma excused herself saying she needed to rest after all this excitement and left Raoul to determine what to do, if anything, about Elizabeth.

Raoul was not particularly interested in anything Elizabeth had to say. He seemed to view her lack of title as a distinct disadvantage and her knowledge of Christine's case as suspect. He immediately leapt to the conclusion that the doctors had not kept his confidences and became enraged. Elizabeth silently noted the similarities between the two men. They could not appear more different on the surface but acted quite alike where the woman was concerned. Both became jealous and angry and both used sarcasm and guilt to their advantage. It was no wonder the poor girl had become so confused.

The conversation—or rather, the monologue, for Raoul had taken it upon himself to deliver a long tirade on the matter of the doctors' apparent indiscretions—soon took a major turn when Elizabeth delicately stated that the doctors had not revealed anything at all to her about the case. Indeed, they had declined to speak with her regarding anything more than a few mutual acquaintances they had. They had not even revealed whether his fiancée was a patient or not.

"Then how can you possibly know?" he cried.

She changed the subject. "She believes she is haunted by this supposed opera ghost, then?"

"_The_ Opera Ghost, yes. It is, of course, not possible, for the monster is finally long dead, which is why—" He stopped, annoyed. It really wasn't her business anyway.

"Hence the word, 'ghost'?"

"No! No, you obviously know nothing at _all_ about it else you would know that the Ghost was never a ghost at all. It was merely a—well, a man, but more of a monster than a man, really!" He was enraged. "Honestly, after what he did to her it's a wonder this didn't happen sooner!"

"And yet it didn't." She let the thought sink in. Then she added, "Actually, I do _know_ that there isn't a ghost. I suppose you think that means nothing, for you suppose that Dr. Charcot knows that as well—"

"Of course he knows that! Everyone knows that! Everyone except the superstitious and the ignorant know there are no ghosts—"

She interrupted him. "Perhaps not. I suppose it is a matter of belief. But in this particular case, I happen to know it for a fact. In fact, there are three things I know that Dr. Charcot cannot possibly know, which may be of dire importance to you if you truly care for your fiancée."

Raoul's irritation and impatience showed. Surely there was nothing this woman could possibly know that the doctor could not! And how presumptuous of her to speak of their relationship in such a way! But he gestured for her to reveal these three things presuming that it would be irrelevant nonsense and he could use it as an excuse to show her to the door.

"First, I know that there is no ghost in this case—not because of the likelihood of the existence of such beings or not, but for the simple fact that the person in question is not deceased." She continued calmly, pretending she did not notice that Raoul went entirely pale and clenched his fists at his sides. "Second, I know that seeing said individual is not an indication that she has lost her wits, but rather a confirmation of the fact that both they and her eyesight are entirely intact, for he was in a position to be seen at approximately the time she claims she saw him." Raoul had gradually turned from white to red and now seemed to be holding his breath. "Finally, I believe that should it becomes necessary in order to improve Christine's state of mine, I have the ability to locate said individual, though it is certainly not necessary at this stage in the situation."

The young man trembled so like a boiling kettle that Elizabeth almost expected him to whistle. "It is," he said through clenched teeth "absolutely imperative at this state in the situation." He advanced on her and his look was threatening, though in an entirely different manner than Erik's. "You will reveal to me how to locate the monster and I will kill him myself," he spat.

Her face was a mask of calm. It disarmed the other, and it would disarm this one as well. "If you intend to kill him," she said matter-of-factly, "would I not be committing a crime of some sort in telling you where to find him? I fear that should make me an accomplice, wouldn't it?"

"It was—I don't mean—I'm sure you understand that I spoke in anger. I have a right to be angry—for what he as done to her. I would not _actually_ kill him myself! Surely you don't think I am a murderer! But he must be found and arrested! _He_ is the murderer. Don't you think he deserves to be punished for his crimes?"

"I have absolutely no idea what he deserves," said she, lying for the first time that day. "How should I know what crimes? Or whether they were indeed committed? Isn't that a matter for—"

"Enough! You will tell me where he is or I shall have you arrested—"

She pretended to be defeated. She heaved a sigh. "I told you I believed I could locate him. I didn't say I know exactly where he is at the moment." Was he still where she'd left him? Perhaps. "Of course, you must do as you feel is best. Have me arrested if you must. But then, how shall ever find him when you need to? And how will you save Christine?" She widened her eyes and looked into his. She had played her last card. If her plan failed Erik would be in danger. She had bet on the young man's love being stronger than his desire for revenge.

And she had won. "The doctors will save her," he began, but stopped abruptly. He was having trouble believing it himself. And what if this woman were telling the truth? What if the monster lived? "What would you have me do?" he asked helplessly.

"Bring her home. Bring her here. Let me talk to her. Don't fear taking her back out of that place. The doctors may be good, but there is far more to such a place than doctors. It may do more harm than good to leave her there. You may choose to trust me or not, but this I _know_." She held out the letters she carried to him. "Verify these if you wish. My mentor is highly respected in his field and frequently entrusts our patients to me." She looked him directly in the eyes as she said it and willed him to believe her. And he did.

It took Raoul a small amount of convincing and a good bit of money to remove from the asylum the same woman he had admitted only the evening before, for the doctors feared accusations and liabilities, and only money quells such fears. She returned to the apartment still murmuring that a priest would do more good than anything. Raoul carried her to her room and carefully placed her in her bed. He introduced Elizabeth as a doctor and Christine was too delirious to notice that Elizabeth herself contradicted the statement. She willing conversed with this unknown woman about the opera house, the ghost, her childhood, a violin, and Raoul in what she thought to be a very direct and chronological manner. In reality, however, Elizabeth could make no sense of any of it and eventually departed late in the evening exhausted and with little very little information but hopeful that tomorrow morning perhaps progress could be made when the effects of the medicines had worn off. She hired a carriage to return her to the hotel and wearily let herself into her room.

She found the other lost soul lying on one side in her narrow bed with an arm thrown 'round a pillow, deliriously mumbling something incoherent. She performed her evening rituals with haste and noted with some interest as she was readying herself for bed that he was alternately mumbling both Christine's name and her own.

Without hesitation, she climbed onto the bed and placed a hand on him. Still warm. She leaned close to hear wheezing breaths. She reached for the mask but hesitated. "Horrid thing" she thought, but she would not remove it this time. Let him have his security if that's what it was. She leaned close to his ear, whispered his name. He stirred only slightly, and though she was not sure if he could hear her or not, she felt the need to tell him. "I've kept the first part of my promise, Erik. She's home again. She'll be fine with time, I'm sure of it, Erik." He murmured something that sounded like thanks but his voice was strained.

Her demeanor changed instantly and she pulled him upright, ordered him to cough. He started to protest but unwilling gave himself over to a dry hack. The room was overly warm, he mentally noted, and his head and chest both ached. The walls of the room moved strangely as though the plaster were liquid. He shook his head lightly and instantly regretted it, as it hurt more.

There was a woman in the room. She was not quite frantic, but on the verge of it. She was saying something about shallow breathing, something about coughing. He struggled to understand her. "They'll hear me," he whispered. "They'll know I am here." He struggled to make her understand him, for he could not be found, though he could not entirely remember why. Then he was lying on his side and everything hurt. Why was she beating him? He shut his eyes tight, but the tears trickled through still. He coughed endlessly, wheezed and cried. Spent the night in utter misery.

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Original note: Reviews, please? I know this isn't the strongest chapter, but it's a bridge to where I'm going. I know that bridges can be beautiful as well as functional, and this one isn't so much so... will probably need to be revised later, and I'll let you know when I do... but your suggestions might be helpful, so I'm putting it up anyway.

I think this version is better. Sorry to take away the happy chapter closing, but I sincerely do think it's more effective this way. Feel free to complain if you hate it, though.


	30. Chapter 30: Pretend

Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

* * *

**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.**

* * *

And this chapter needed some cleaning up to remain true to the way it really happened in the book. It's fixed now. Hope you enjoy the new version.

* * *

"A priest," was the first thing Christine said that seemed coherent. "I've asked, but no one will listen to me. They say that I've lost my senses, but I don't think so," she said. "I saw him as clearly as I see you. The first night he came in a carriage and he wore the white mask. After that, he came in black. I'm sure the difference in color means something, though I'm not yet sure entirely what. I've been trying to figure it out. It's a message of some kind."

"Perhaps it just reflects his mood," ventured Elizabeth, and she wondered if this were perhaps true.

"Then you believe me? You believe I've seen him?"

"I didn't say that, but since you ask, yes, I believe you."

"Oh, thank heavens! Finally! Then listen carefully to what you must do. There is a body beneath the opera house. I know it is closed now and perhaps it will be difficult to gain entry. But if you take a priest, or perhaps the police—if you make it known that there is a body down there, perhaps they will admit you! They would admit me, surely. They know me! But you will not allow me to go there after this, will you? Then listen carefully! You must find the body. Go to the fifth cellar. There is a lake there. You will cross the lake and enter a house. Oh! Of course you think I've lost my mind! But if you went there and saw if for yourself you would see I am perhaps the only one who has my wits about me!"

"I don't doubt the truth of what you're saying."

"You mean you think I believe what I am saying."

"I mean exactly what I say. I believe you. There is a lake. And a house." _And I have been there. I have _lived_ there. What would you say to that, I wonder?_ "What more?"

"Well, you must find the body. It is like to terrify you. He terrified me in life; I imagine he is as terrible in death, but go to him—find him anyway." _Having already done this, Elizabeth remembered._ "Then there is a secret passageway that leads behind my old dressing room—oh! I must go with you! You'll never find that passageway without me!—and he must be buried behind the mirror, for that is where we met, you see. And this ring…" she held up her hand "This ring… you must return it to him." _She didn't yet know that passageway, hadn't heard about the ring, but it did not matter._ There was a long silence, before Christine said, "You are just indulging me! You cannot believe all this!"

"I believe you, child," Elizabeth said gently.

"He used to call me that," said she. "That and… angel, sometimes…" She looked wistful.

"You cared for him."

She frowned. "I don't know. He gave me many things, taught me many things. But he—well, he's hideous for one thing. I don't mean to sound shallow! I don't mean that he is merely not handsome, for I don't think of such things. But he—" she broke off in fear of how it would sound.

"Go on."

"You will not think I am cruel?"

"I will try never to think such things."

"All right, then. He is a skeleton covered in yellow-paper skin with a head like a skull and two empty eye sockets... a terrible hole where his nose should be and a mouth like nothing you've ever seen! And his hair—well, there's so little of it and his hands—they're like little cages of bone and when he touched me I felt cold all the way to my very soul—" Christine had reached up and grasped the older woman's two hands in her own and now she clutched at them, pulling her towards the bed "—and his eyes burn amber and he reeks of death—" she locked eyes with Elizabeth, become frantic in her memory. "And he would grip me tight, like this" she squeezed Elizabeth's hands "and I could not get free and he would put his face… right near mine…" her breath came in gasps "and I could not get away."

Elizabeth remembered a similar experience, carefully hid any reaction and said calmly, "He terrifies you."

"Oh, but—" Christine stopped in dismay. "You will think I've gone quite mad."

"Not at all. What else?"

"Well, I was going to say that he's really not like that at all. I mean he _is_ but—" she groped for words. "That's how he looks, but if you _knew_ him the way I knew him then…"

Elizabeth smiled. "Then?"

Christine looked upward. "If you could hear him _sing_!" she exclaimed. "If you could hear him sing, you would think that all the ugliness in the world couldn't possibly matter in the least because—I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sure you think I've gone entirely silly, don't you?"

They stared into each other's eyes. "Not. At. All."

"But I _am_ terrified of him, nevertheless. Because no matter how beautiful you would think him when he sings, his appearance is matched in ugliness only by his anger. He is so angry—I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name!" She told her, and she continued. "He is so angry, Elizabeth, for the way the world has treated him that he does unspeakable things. I do mean unspeakable. I won't talk of them at all."

Elizabeth was nodding and Christine was fighting tears. "But he wanted me to stay with him! To marry him! Can you imagine? What would my life have been? Day after day in that dungeon, a hideous corpse for a husband, never seeing the light of day? Yes, there is music, but isn't there more to live than music?"

"I'd certainly like to think so."

"Well, there wasn't for a while, for me. When my father died… but then Raoul… we had known each other since childhood, you see. Well, it the details don't matter, do they? But I love Raoul, and Erik—that's his name, Erik—he became so jealous. He nearly killed hundreds of people who were in attendance that evening!"

"How did you stop him?"

"Me? I didn't! Or maybe I did. I don't know. He made me choose. If I married him, he would let everyone live, but if I did not, he would kill himself and me and everyone else."

"And how would he accomplish this?"

"Do you doubt it?"

Not that he would destroy himself anyway... but she said nothing.

"Gunpowder," Christine continued. "That's what he told me anyway…Barrels and barrels of it beneath the fifth cellar. Enough to blow the whole thing up..."

"Ah…" Elizabeth pondered this for a few moments. "So. How _did_ you stop him?"

"Well—by agreeing, of course! I said I would marry him!"

"And yet… you are not married, are you?"

"No, not yet. I'm to marry Raoul. Oh. You mean am I married to him? No, thankfully he changed his mind. Can you believe it? You see, I told him I would marry him—it was a terrible game. A grasshopper and a scorpion. Dreadful!"

Elizabeth frowned, then raised her eyebrows questioningly. "A game? With a grasshopper and a scorpion?" She said it softly, almost to herself.

"Yes, to the question of whether I would marry him or not. A grasshopper... a grasshopper means no, and that would cause the explosion. A scorpion means yes, and that, well, I guess it turned on a water tap somehow and it flooded the place, but nothing exploded. But it nearly drowned Raoul and the Persian—" She paused. "He's... someone else you wouldn't know. They have some history," she ended, as though it explained everything.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied, pretending it did. She was thinking of the scorpion and the grasshopper. What symbolism! she thought.

"—but never mind that, the point is that I agreed and so—it's no wonder they think I have lost my mind! It sounds like nonsense, doesn't it? But it's true, unless they are right about me! I turned the scorpion and it turned a switch that drenched all the gunpowder with water."

Wouldn't an average person consider the grasshopper the benign choice, the marriage, the dowsing of gunpowder? Wouldn't anyone you would meet on the street warn you to stay away from the scorpion, which would sting terribly? Didn't a scorpion signify danger, even death? And yet, the scorpion for the marriage—and life. The grasshopper, death and destruction. Turn the scorpion, and marry me.

It might seem he was suggesting a marriage to him would be like the sting of a scorpion—and yet, in some cultures, a scorpion was considered an omen of luck, a harbinger of good fortune, a powerful figure that conveys self assurance and positive energy, while grasshoppers live only to consume and to destroy as they consume. What exactly had Erik been trying to suggest? And had Christine understood his metaphors or had she simply turned the scorpion in order to save Raoul and the opera house, as she had said?

"I figured I could always kill myself later if it was too terrible to bear. I agreed to marry him, and I would kill myself. But he saw it in my eyes; he knew that even if I married him I would not really stay with him. I would sooner die. Even so, the gunpowder was drenched and the opera house was safe. But he didn't release Raoul and the other man—the Persian—and they were like to drown. I begged him... I went on my knees before him, I swore oaths and vows and promises—everything and anything I could think of! I promised. Oh, I promised to marry him _and remain with him_, care for him and be true to him always and forever, and I let him touch me and I looked upon him and didn't turn away—and at last he believed me..."

Silence. A pause. "But it wasn't true?" Elizabeth asked very gently.

Christine was crying. "True? What does 'true' mean anyway? I promised to stay with him. I would stay with him always. I _promised_..."

"Christine—such a promise, made at such a time, one cannot be expected to keep."

The girl looked at her in surprise. "I thought all promises must be kept!" She paused, considering. "And so, loathe as I was to go through with it, it was a promise. I might as well make the best of it. I agreed to marry him, to live with him, as long as I should live—naturally. I would not kill myself then. He believed me. There was joy in his eyes. He called me his living wife. And he turned off the water and allowed Raoul and the Persian to live. He took them away—he said he returned them both to the surface—while I remained in the house to wait for him.

"And when he returned... Oh, if you could have seen him when he returned! He approached me so shyly. You would not have thought he was the same man who had just threatened to kill over two thousand people! He was so timid and so meek. He approached me, hesitant, apprehensive. And I felt terribly sorry for him I thought to please him, even if only a little. I stood there as he approached me, and I let him kiss me..."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, remembering, and Christine took it for horror.

"Just on the forehead, though," she amended quickly. "I closed my eyes. _He was so pleased_; I just shut my eyes but it was _so much_ to him—he said no one—_not even his own mother_—had had ever let him kiss her before—and then he began to cry! It was such a mournful sound—beyond loneliness, beyond sorrow—that I cried as well, and he... while he was crying, he tore off his mask. Nothing had changed—he was still hideous to me—but I felt such pity for him that I could not tear myself away, and so I stayed there—and suddenly he—well… he just _changed_. He told me I was free. He gave me a ring. He said 'I know you love the boy' and told me not to cry."

Christine appeared as though in a trance staring off into space over Elizabeth's right shoulder. Her voice sounded distant, hollow, vacant, as she said as though reciting, "It was terribly significant for him, you see, that I had cried—that _we had cried together,_ he said. That I had 'mingled my tears' with his.

"He left me then, standing there in horror and wonder, and when he returned he had with him Raoul. And we fell into one another's arms and kissed, entirely forgetting that Erik was right there, still watching us! And after that is when he made me promise. I had the ring then, and he made me promise to return when he was dead. And I promised. He told me where to find his dead body. He told me where to bury it. And I felt such pity for him, he who had never been loved in his whole life, not even by his own mother! I was happy to leave. I was so joyful that he released me, but I felt not a little guilt as well for my happiness was to come at his expense—he who had never felt happiness in his terrible life. And I wished then to give him some small joy, and so I kissed him. On the forehead, like he had me. And he cried and cried as Raoul took me away..."

Elizabeth herself could have readily cried had she not so perfected turning her own face into a mask when she needed to. She nodded to show she was still listening.

Christine continued to stare vacuously past Elizabeth. "But this is the important part," she said. "Raoul, to spare me, did not allow me to find out about it when Erik died. This is why I need the priest. Do you understand? Or I can go myself. You could help me, couldn't you? If I kept the promise…" she trailed off.

"If you kept the promise…?"

"Perhaps he would leave me alone at last!"

"This is what you want most?"

"More than anything!" she sighed.

"And to keep the promise?"

"I must bury him. With the ring. And some other things. I know where to find them."

"Ah." There was a silence. Then at last, "How do you know he is dead?"

"Because I saw him!"

"Do you see me?"

Christine frowned. It was a trap. "Of course I see you. But it isn't the same."

"So you see people who are living. And sometimes, people who are dead."

"Yes."

"And how can you tell the difference?"

"That's not fair! He's the only one I've seen dead!"

"Did you suspect he was dead the first time you saw him then? The night in the white mask? With the carriage?"

She frowned again, remembering. "I didn't know he was dead until Raoul told me. But by then he'd come several times for me."

"Have you seen him since they told you he was dead?"

Her frown deepened. "No... No, but they took me away after that. I saw him once in white. Then four times—no five or more—in black. Then Raoul told me he was dead. Then they took me away."

"Did you see him last night?"

Dumbfounded, she didn't respond.

"You didn't see him last night. If he were a ghost—if he haunted you—wouldn't he have followed you to the hospital?"

"I don't know. I slept. _Perhaps_ he came... But all the times I saw him, in white, in black, with and without the carriage, though I didn't know he was dead, it was after his death! The advertisement Raoul showed me—he had been dead for over a month, before I began to see him!"

"Why didn't he come to you sooner?"

She glared. "How should I know?"

"What if he wasn't dead?"

Her eyes widened. "It isn't possible! The advertisement! The _Epoque_!"

"All right. Then let's pretend for a moment. Could we do that? Could we pretend something? And stop me if it frightens you, but let's try this." Christine was nodding, so she continued, "Let's pretend that it was a _mistake_ in the _Epoque_. Let's pretend for a moment that he _isn't_ dead at all. What would you say to that?"

She struggled. "I would say… well, I would say that…"

"If he were alive, could he drive up in the carriage?"

"Of course," she said slowly.

"And if he were alive, could he stand outside your window?"

"Well, why couldn't he?"

"Which would frighten you more? That he is dead and his ghost haunts you, or that he is alive and has perhaps found you?"

"I…" she stared across the room vacantly again. "Why… I…" Then she met the woman's eyes. "I don't know," she said.

"That's fair," Elizabeth told her. "Let's take a break now. You should eat some, and then you need to rest. I'll get your Mamma." Christine didn't bother to correct her as she contemplated the possibilities, but before Elizabeth left that day she looked deeply into Christine's eyes and told her three very important things. First, that she had not lost her wits. Second, that she, Elizabeth, would return tomorrow. And third, and most importantly, regardless of whether you stay in bed tonight or watch at the window, _you will not see him tonight_."

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Reviews? Please?


	31. Chapter 31: Conflicted

**Disclaimer:** Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights!

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**Authors Note:** Yay! At long last, the chapter you've all been waiting for: chapter 31! Actually, it's not particularly better than the chapters that precede it, but if you liked those, it's more of the same, I suppose... I hope you enjoy it.

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**WARNING**

I DO need to warn everyone that I went on a Typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 22 or a few sentences in chapter 19 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.

Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.

**Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused. I did add a couple of things I'm awfully proud of, so if it's not too much trouble, please re-read or skim when you have them time and let me know what you thought of the differences. THANKS!  
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Oh yeah--one final note: Since we're operating under Leroux not Kay, there's been no morphine involved ever, so my mention of codeine shouldn't send everyone off reeling about relapses, okay? Thanks!

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There was no chance Christine had seen Erik last night. Elizabeth was sure of _that_ much, anyway, for she knew exactly where he had been all night long. He'd been rather delirious when she arrived at her room and was only dimly aware of her presence. She'd hauled him to the edge of the bed and pounded on his back until he coughed desperately and protractedly. It pained her to do so, but she feared pneumonia and could not take the chance.

He'd clumsily fought her off when she made a move toward the mask, so she'd had to creep up from behind him to check his temperature with the back of her hand against his neck. She'd coaxed him into drinking a bit of cool water, though it was near impossible with the mask in place, and in his delirium he had apparently forgotten that she'd already seen beneath it. He wrapped his arms around his own torso and rubbed his protruding ribs painfully. She plied him with codeine when she feared he could take no more, then she collapsed on the other side of the bed. He seemed unaware of her presence so she drifted off to sleep listing to the soft rasp of his labored breaths. She awakened later to find him much nearer to her so that they were almost touching. She peered at him in the darkness.

To her, he was at once both mysterious and childlike, and she was strangely drawn to something about him. Perhaps it was the very fact that he carefully kept her at a distance—something few men did, in her opinion, with any woman at all. Maybe it was the sense of adventure she'd felt for the first time in years, or perhaps that talking with him gave her a real sense of _purpose_—most men had desires they wished to have fulfilled, but he had simple human needs she felt _deserved_ to be filled but had instead been utterly neglected by all humanity—and that is quite a difference. There was his selflessness two nights before when he had offered her everything he had scrounged to save another, and there was his utter helplessness at present, combined with the fact that regardless of the seriousness of his present condition, he had insisted he was of no consequence. Then there was the feeling that this was perhaps the one person on earth who would not have rejected Jacob—the only person she had ever spoken to about him (save people like Doctor Wundt and Doctor Freud, who did not count because analysts rarely speak at all and when they do their words are generally scripted or designed to reflect and illicit a specific response)—who had not responded with some variation on the concept that Jacob was better off dead anyway. And perhaps that was the strongest motivation at all. Whatever the case, whatever the reason, hideous though he was, she found herself thinking of him when she had no reason to and trying to be close to him whenever he was nearby.

She shifted slightly to close the distance. It didn't matter tonight if perhaps he thought she were someone else or wasn't really aware she was there at all. She resolved that for the moment she would allow herself the luxury of enjoying having someone close after so many years of being alone. She reasoned that he deserved the same indulgence even more so for the very same reasons and reached out to drape one arm around him.

Morning came far too early. It had not been an easy night, but it had somehow been a comforting one. She had awakened at regular intervals throughout the night contemplating the feverish sleeping form beside her, yet she was not drowsy this morning. She opened her eyes, looked across the bed, and tried to calculate how many years had it been since she'd had a man in her bed. "Not enough" she would have said if someone had asked her a month earlier. Had so much changed? Would she dare say "Too many" if asked now? Had he so changed her so easily, so soon? And what of when her time here was finished? Could she go back to being as independent as she once had been, or would she be susceptible—to Wilhelm's wiles, for example? But she would worry about that then. It didn't matter this morning. She slowly dragged her fingertips gently across his arm his shoulder, moved closer, listened to the sound of his ragged breathing.

He must learn to treat himself with more care, she thought as she watched the dark curtains become just a bit lighter as the sun rose outside. After all, one gets only one body in life, and regardless of whether it is perfectly formed or entirely misshapen, one must treat it with respect, or one finds all too soon that life is ended with nothing to show for it.

She crept about quietly so as not to wake him but was unsuccessful. When she glanced back as she slipped out the door, he was watching her with glazed bloodshot eyes. She went back. She could have easily stayed all day, fawned over him, fed him, whatever, but she had to keep her promise—not to mention she was certain he would have been mortified. And so with reluctance she dragged herself away from his side after securing the promise that he would stay and rest yet another day. It was an easy promise to exact, as he was clearly exhausted.

Breakfast in the hotel. The staff were like old friends. Other guests looked upon her as a fixture. How had she come to stay so long? She felt eyes upon her, left in haste, rushed to the Valerius apartment.

After the customary greetings, she raised her eyebrows at Christine, who was propped up upon an absurd number of pillows, no doubt by the fawning and doting Raoul. "Well?" she asked her.

Christine blinked at her. "Yes?"

"Was I right? You did not see him last night?"

"I did not," she admitted.

"Did you _look_?"

"I tried. Raoul insisted upon staying. He slept out there where I used to watch. I had to stay in my room all night. I did look out the window once, but it faces the other side." She pointed. "He was always out front before."

"So have you determined anything from that?"

She blinked. "Like what? What could I possibly determine from not having seen him? Only that he did not come last night. Or, perhaps, that he came to the front. Raoul did not see him either. Well, then, Raoul perhaps would not tell me if he had seen him. But I'm sure I would have heard the commotion. Raoul would likely have shot him. I most definitely would have heard that."

"How do you suppose that would that have turned out?"

She seemed confused. "Why, I imagine Raoul would have killed him...How else could a bullet penetrating his body have turned out?"

"Killed him. Then you now believe he is alive?"

"Oh, I don't know what I think about that! I cannot say for certain whether he is alive or dead until I see the dead body myself!

"Or the living one."

She shuddered. "Or the living one. Yes."

"Then have you decided which you fear more?"

She shook her head. "If he is dead, then he will haunt me forever, or at least until I die, and then he will be waiting for me. If he is alive, he will die eventually, and then I shall be free, so in this way, it is worse if he is a ghost. But then, if he is dead, he is insubstantial. He cannot grab me, cannot drag me anywhere, cannot touch me with those hands that smell of death. If he is living, he can capture me and carry me off, so in this way, it is worse if he is living. Of course, there is another way of looking at it entirely. If he is alive, Raoul can perhaps protect me. Someone who is alive can be killed. If he is already dead, then he can come through the walls and show himself to me, and I shall never have any peace. And so it is worse if he is dead." As she worked through her convoluted thoughts she seemed to grow frantic as she had the night before, so Elizabeth stopped her.

"Consider," she said. "If he were dead, the matter of the burial might solve everything quite easily. If he is alive, perhaps he can be reasoned with."

Christine let out a short insulting laugh. "Reasoned with! It is quite obvious that you have never met Erik," she said, "for he is _not_ to be reasoned with." Then she stopped suddenly and her expression changed entirely. Her look of near-derision fell and a worried appearance overtook her. "You _know_!" she exclaimed, and she began a frantic writhing about to push herself into a more vertical position in order to better meet the other woman's eyes. "How can you _possibly_ know? How _much_ do you know?"

"Indeed, what is you think I know?" She was taken aback by this sudden change of attitude, but she did not show it.

"You _know_ that he is _alive_!" she fairly shrieked and Elizabeth could hear footsteps that were most definitely Raoul's running to the door. "You said 'If he _were_ dead' as though he weren't. Then you said 'if he _is_ alive' as though he _is_. You _know_ something." She narrowed her eyes as though trying to see through the woman to the other side. Alas, Elizabeth had never needed a mask to hide her thoughts or feelings, and now was no exception. Her mind raced beneath a perfectly placid face.

"You're correct, that is how I said it. Of course, it doesn't actually prove I know anything. It perhaps merely reveals more than I intended to about my own beliefs. I'm not much on believing in ghosts. It's far easier to believe your friend has simply found you—"

"He's not my friend!" she screeched as the door slammed open and Raoul came rushing in crying out, "What have you done to her?" and the two of them clutched at each other and turned to Elizabeth as though she were the monster. "She's worse now than she was before!"

She waited. As she expected, they could not maintain such histrionics without an outside reaction, and they calmed themselves almost immediately. "Don't _call_ him that. He's _not_ my friend," Christine said softly, looking away as though embarrassed at her own outburst.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth nearly stammered. "I guess I misunderstood you yesterday. My mistake. My apologies."

"What could possibly be to misunderstand," Raoul began. "He's a monster—"

"Raoul, please! I'll not hear it!" Christine raised her voice to a shout.

He looked wounded.

Elizabeth touched his arm. "Let me talk to her. We'll deal with that part later."

"You're supposed to be making her better," he grumbled.

"It doesn't happen all at once. She's not seeing him anymore anyway. Isn't that some improvement?

Raoul made a non-committal noise and shuffled out, his eyes darkened under furrowed brows. "I hate it when he's like that," Christine hissed.

"When he's like what?" Elizabeth settled back into the chair that had been placed for her at Christine's bedside.

"Like..." she waved her hand in the direction of the door. "Like _that_," she said, as if that explained it all. "He's terribly jealous of Erik."

Elizabeth turned her head slightly, raised her eyebrows, half-nodded.

"I know it sounds ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. He's the one I want to marry. I'd want to still more if he wouldn't act this way. Only once or twice I've ever considered not marrying him, and it's been for this."

"This?"

"This... about Erik."

"What about Erik?"

Christine was struggling to put her thoughts into words. Ideas tumbled through her brain. She was no less confused than she had been in those days at the opera house, torn between the two of them. She could not love Erik, but she could not bear Raoul's childishness, either. "Perhaps I shouldn't have chosen between them," she said. "Perhaps I should have chosen neither."

"But you did choose, didn't you?" She paused. "Or _did_ you?" She let this sink in.

Christine's eyes widened, then narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Did you get the chance to make a choice? Or did they choose for you?"

She frowned. "I chose. I told you about that dreadful game—" She stopped, her eyes growing wide again, the expression of her face positively horrified. "Oh, god, I chose Erik!" she gasped. "And he... sent me... he gave me to Raoul, though I cannot possibly fathom _why_!"

"Christine," Elizabeth said carefully, waiting for the girl to make eye contact. "It is very important that you are absolutely certain of your choice. Marriage is not a commitment anyone should take lightly. We now have two very important questions we must answer. First, which is more terrifying—the idea that Erik is dead or the idea that Erik is alive, and second, what is the choice you would make if it were entirely yours to make. You understand you cannot simply ignore these questions. They will continue to come back, time and again, if you will pardon the expression—to haunt you."

Christine was pale, her lips bloodless, her eyes disturbed, but she knew it was true. She nodded slowly. "But what if..." she began. "What if I cannot answer either of those questions?"

"You can answer them, Christine, or you will be able to in time. Are you willing to?"

There was fear in her eyes. "I don't have much choice, do I? I can't go on like this, can I?"

This was only the second of many such meetings in which Christine was often panicked, frequently confused, and _always_ conflicted.

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Hey everyone! My weekend is pretty booked, so I made the supreme effort of getting the corrections of chapters 19-30, as well as this chapter, out tonight as well so you'll have it to read over the weekend. It will be truly worth the effort if you all enjoy it. Please let me know if I'm successful by way of review.

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	32. Chapter 32: Unwelcome

Author's Note: Okay. We're back on track after the revising frenzy. Again, there were no _plot_ changes, but if you're a character and detail-oriented person, I hope you'll go back and look over 19-29 again because they're WAY better now than they were, mostly thanks to MadLizzy who pointed out some stuff I'd overlooked. So, extra special thanks to her. In fact, ML, this chapter is for you. (I hope there are no glaring errors in THIS one!)

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Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I **dare not** infringe upon their copyrights! If any ALW or Kay starts to creep in, please rebuke me, eh?

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Elizabeth continued back and forth between the hotel and Mamma Valerius's apartment for several days, running rather mundane errands—but in peculiar ways—in between. The first day she had determined there was nothing in the Opera's fifth cellar but dress clothes and had reluctantly taken one dry set back with her. The second day she had managed to obtain more comfortable men's clothing, including pajamas, in a variety of shops along the route between the hotel and the apartment. By the third day she had arranged to have her supper delivered to her room late in the evening. It was a ruse, of course; she invariably ate before she arrived and offered what was brought up was to him, though it rather frequently went to waste. She did the same with breakfast and ate along the way as well, for it would be no good for someone to discover her strange guest.

Each day was the same—morning and afternoon with Christine, evening and night with Erik. It was wearying. This, she thought, is why they created hospitals. Not for the patients, but for those who tend them, for this to and fro from place to place was enough destroy a person's body if not her spirit.

She spent her days talking with Christine, who, though young and immature in many respects, was also quite worldly in her strange superstitious way, speaking of ghosts and angels as though they were tangible beings, telling tales of them both and believing in them quite entirely. And though she still feared and dreaded Erik to an extent, she now revealed positive aspects of him as well. She told endearing stories of him, and Elizabeth, through mirroring Christine's emotions, better understood her own.

The journey back to the hotel each evening was like traveling to another world or another dimension, traveling across time and space to an entirely inverted world. She would contemplate the things Christine told her of Erik and compare them to her own perceptions as she rode back to the hotel. The more she learned of him, the more intrigued she became. Then she would arrive and open the door and find only the hollow shell of the man she had come to think he was.

Christine improved rapidly, as the cause of her most recent ailment was her fear of Erik, who, naturally, no longer appeared to her. Elizabeth suspected she had always had somewhat deeper problems that had lent to her getting into her unique relationship with Erik in the first place. Still, it could take a lifetime to address those issues and her promise to Erik, though vague, seemed to imply only restoring Christine to her former self as he had known her. _Provide relief to the poor sweet child who once pitied him... find a way to save her_. Christine was, as regarded her hysteria at Erik's appearance, very much "relieved" though ultimately, Elizabeth could not leave the situation as it was, with Christine not certain of Erik's life or death, for there was no telling whether Erik would start the cycle over by seeking her out again when he was well.

When he was well... _If _he were to get well again, she thought as she rode in the back of a hired carriage from the hotel to the apartment. It wasn't entirely certain at this point. He had shown far less improvement than she. He was weak and feverish, sometimes coherent but often delirious. He showed signs of paranoia, though whether this was a symptom or not was indiscernible considering his appearance and consequent desire to keep away from the eyes of "so-called humanity," as he had once said. His breathing was labored and shallow; he had positively determined not to make a sound, so he was loathe to cough. It was this that concerned Elizabeth the most, for she feared his lungs would fill with fluid, effectively drowning him. She could keep him quiet with codeine to be certain, but it couldn't cure him. Ultimately, she needed to get him out of her hotel room to someplace where he would not be concerned about being discovered, but as she could not determine how he had gotten _in_ that night, she could not establish a furtive method to get him back _out_ undiscovered, especially as he would not be of much help in present condition. Even if she could get him out, she speculated, she could not take him back to the Opera, for spending time in damp underground recesses was the last thing he needed at the moment, regardless of how secluded or soundproof they might be.

She _could_ find a more secluded place than the hotel, surely. She had only to tell Mamma Valerius and Raoul that she would be a bit later one morning, or that she needed to leave earlier one afternoon. She could rent a small house outside the city. She could find someone to rent or sell her a small carriage and travel back and forth. It would be far safer, far more private, and he could have a room to himself—as she expected he preferred, considering that the night of the storm he had deliberately chosen the floor rather than lie beside her. But how would she get him into the carriage and to the house undetected? Perhaps she could cover him in his now-dry cloak and slip out quickly at night explaining, if she encountered anyone, that they were in a hurry—perhaps even that her friend was not well, which often sent people scurrying for fear of contagion. But no one had seen him come in. Someone would wonder who he was, how he got there. Still, she would take the risk if it became necessary. If he were to get any worse... Yet if he got worse still, he wouldn't be walking out on his own, either. At some point, she was going to need help. She repressed the thought as the carriage arrived at her destination.

Mamma Valerius greeted her, explained that Raoul had not yet arrived for the day, but that Christine had felt well enough to get up and was dressed and waiting for her. She wished to talk today in the parlor.

She was indeed looking better, those still rather pale. She wore a plain green dress and had put up her hair. Elizabeth noticed she still wore Erik's ring, though she wore no other adornments. She rose slightly as Elizabeth entered and held out her hand.

"My, Christine! You're looking well! Nearly recovered?" she began.

"I think I might answer your questions now," Christine replied softly with a nod of her head. "The two you said were important."

Oh, to at least be making progress with one of them! thought Elizabeth as she sunk into a chair. She gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Mamma Valerius who then excused herself and tottered out carefully toward one of the bedrooms leaning heavily on a cane.

"You talked about marriage," Christine said slowly. She had her wits entirely about her. She was being very proper. She had clearly thought this through over time. Elizabeth wondered idly whether she had been mulling this over for many days between their sessions or whether it had come about only since yesterday. "You said that it is a very serious commitment. Something I must not take lightly. You are correct. I have always had a very romantic view of it, yet I see your point. It is indeed romantic when you are making the choice. It may not be so years after the fact. I have known some unhappy older women, and it did not until recently occur to me that many of them were probably very happy when they first made their choices."

Elizabeth nodded, impressed. Yes, she was young, but she was not entirely foolish after all. "And so what did you decide?"

"I have only decided part of it thus far," she continued carefully. "I am completely certain I could not marry Erik, as I suppose I have known all along. I agreed to it at that moment in the fifth cellar because I felt I had to. My life—and the lives of many others!—depended on that choice, and I could not sacrifice the lives of others for my own happiness; that is not really a choice at all. But I would not marry him if I had a _real_ choice. I would not _choose_ to marry him. I don't _love_ him." It sounded harsh. She knew it sounded harsh. He had done so much, tried so hard... she _pitied_ him! It wasn't only his appearance, though, was it? "There are many things about him which I..." —she searched for a word— "...admire," she said finally. "He is talented. He is intelligent. But there are too many other things. I have mentioned before, though it is no fault of his own, his appearance. And there is his anger. I consider the women I know who are unhappy in their marriages and I consider they were probably happy at the beginning. If I cannot imagine myself happy with him now, and if it will get only worse, I cannot even begin to fathom how it would be later."

"So you've decided..."

"Only that I would never marry _him_. Which may be irrelevant anyway once you reveal to me whether he is alive or dead. Yes, I still think you know, or at least that you think you know. And someday you shall tell me. But wait, I have not answered the question entirely, either. I would never marry _Erik_. But I've not come to a decision yet on the matter of _Raoul_. I do love him desperately, but there are many things about him that I do not like and which I see more and more often from him as of late. If this is how he behaves while we are only engaged, I dare not contemplate what it might become when I am his _wife_. I will therefore delay making my decision about him. It will not be so hard to persuade him, I think. I will tell him that I have had such a dreadful fright, that I need more time to recover, that if he really loves me, he will be willing to wait until the ends of the earth for me, and that a few more months is not nearly so long as that."

Elizabeth doubted that Raoul could be convinced so easily, but it was not critical to discuss that at the moment. Christine was coming to the other question.

"As to which would frighten me more—that Erik is alive or that Erik is dead—I have decided that each is equally frightening in its own right; therefore my answer is of no real weight. The truth is what matters. I wish to know the _truth_ of the _matter_. Is he alive or is he dead? And as I say, I am certain there is something you know and are not telling me. You are afraid to tell me, maybe? You don't want to hurt me? Don't want to me turn crazy again? It would be better if I knew the truth.

"I will tell you what I _wish_ rather than which would frighten me more, for as I say, they can frighten me equally. What I wish is to not be frightened anymore, not to suffer anymore—for _none_ of us to suffer anymore. For Erik's part, I wish that if he is alive, he is somehow happy somewhere. That perhaps he will forget me someday, or at least forget the pain we caused each other. And, as I know that is rather unrealistic, if he can never be happy, then I wish for his death, which will be an end to his life of misery."

Elizabeth was silent. She had clearly underestimated these two. He had never said aloud to her that he loved the singer, but it was apparent to Elizabeth each time he spoke of Christine that he believed he did. Yet Elizabeth had doubted his feelings. She had believed he wished only to possess the girl, until the night of the storm when he implored her to go and help her, with not a thought for himself. Now here sat this girl, scarcely more than a child who openly said "I do not love him," and yet when she expressed her heart's desire, it was for his comfort. Fools, both of them! she thought. All the couples of the world perhaps had not this much love between them, and yet look what a mess these two had made of it!

Elizabeth listened politely as Christine continued. She laid out her plans for telling Raoul of the need to indefinitely postpone the possible wedding. She didn't intend to tell him she was considering not proceeding with it at all. She talked about her singing—could she really give it all up due to what had happened? True, she wouldn't have even had the opportunity had it not been for Erik, but did that mean she should abandon it now? Just because something never should have been put in motion, did that mean that once it was already begun the only right decision was to put an end to it? And what if she didn't want to? She talked about the Opera. What a pity no one was willing to take a chance to open its doors again. After all, it was an entirely safe place now, if Erik were dead... _If_ he were. But he wasn't, was he? And she was back to questioning Elizabeth carefully again about her choice of words the day before.

Yes, Christine was certainly improving greatly, thought Elizabeth, though she could not be certain she was at all like she was before, as she had not known her then. As soon as Erik recovered she would question him as to the girl's previous disposition. _If_ he recovered, she thought ruefully. If he didn't, at least she would be able to answer Christine's question simply once and for all. _He was not dead, but he is now. He was pleased for your recovery. He died in peace..._ It would be only half true perhaps, but there was no need to cause further guilt, further suffering. Or maybe less information still was better. Simply _Yes, he's dead._ Raoul would be greatly relieved, and perhaps Erik himself would be as well. The only one who would be unhappy with such an arrangement was herself! She could take a lesson from those around her, perhaps, and try to consider her own feelings a little less. Even if she did so, though, it would still seem terribly tragic. And what was she doing now? Letting him die in her mind, before it had even come to that? No. She was just preparing for the worst, just in case, she thought, for no matter how terrible, things always hurt less if they are expected.

At last it was time to go, and Christine walked Elizabeth to the door, grasped her hands tightly and implored her that they should talk again soon. Elizabeth was puzzled. She'd come every day but Sunday. "I'll come again tomorrow," she said and smiled as Christine lifted herself on her toes and squeezed her hands again. She bid the girl goodbye and left hurriedly.

She had no errands to run that day, so she stopped at a restaurant, asking the driver to please return for her. Even after eating a leisurely supper and waiting for the taxi to return, she arrived at the hotel earlier than usual. She was pleased. She would spend some time making notes, perhaps read for bit, then arrange for Erik's secret supper. Perhaps this evening he would show some improvement at last.

But no sooner than she had closed the door behind her, there was a sudden knock upon it. Elizabeth whirled to stare at the door. Hadn't she been the only one in the hallway? But then, had she really been paying close attention? But even so, why would anyone knock at her door? Had she lost track of time? She glanced at her watch. Still ticking. Supper already? No… it was for too early. Who could possibly be here now, she wondered.

She opened it a crack and peered out into a familiar face.

Christine! How could she have gotten here? And what could she possibly want so soon? Elizabeth had just left her home—what, an hour ago? She glanced at her watch again. All right, longer. But not so long that anything of any significance should have occurred! Ah, well, if this wasn't a fine situation to be in! But she put on her politest smile and stood in the open space between the door and its frame, filling the space so Christine could not see past her. "What can I do for you, Christine?" she asked.

"I—well, I'm so sorry, Elizabeth—I just—I thought that perhaps—" she stammered. How had she suddenly become so much less coherent in this short amount of time? "I'm sorry. I followed you...I didn't feel like we were finished today."

"I'm sorry, dear. We'll pick up where we left off tomorrow, like we always do—" she sensed movement behind her. Heard a soft rasp. Not a sound now! she thought frantically. "But tonight I really must—" she stepped into the hall, closed the door behind her with a soft click. "I really must catch up on some other work," she said. "I have so very much to do."

Christine nodded. "I want you to know I've been entirely open with you," she began. "I've told you the truth about _everything_." She sounded very near tears.

"Of course, dear." She put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Of course you have. That's good. Come now. Let's get you home. Your family will be worried!"

"Oh, no, they'll be fine. Mamma has gone to bed early, and Raoul had some business to attend to, and then he's going back to the country estate tonight. I won't be missed tonight. That's why I chose tonight to come here."

"Ah..." She'd had it planned then? When she'd gotten up and dressed that morning perhaps? "Christine, tomorrow morning is not so far off. Please. Go home. Rest. I'll be there first thing."

Christine turned and took a few steps as though to go, then retraced her steps back. "Listen, please. Tell me the truth about what you know. I won't let it frighten me this time, I promise. I don't feel I could possibly sleep tonight without knowing. Not for fear, you understand. I'm just terribly curious now. I've been thinking about it constantly ever since you said—well, you recall! And please, Elizabeth. Consider: no one _ever_ tells the truth to me. Please. Be the one person who does."

Elizabeth desperately wished they weren't having this conversation in the hallway of a hotel. Elegant as it was, it wasn't the proper venue. News such as this would have come across so much better in Christine's bedroom, a comfortable parlor, or even in a small cafe. But the blue eyes implored her, and the slender white hands squeezed the blood from her own. "Oh, Christine," she said.

"Tell me please." She was near tears, yes, but not wild hysterical tears. Her eyes were brimming, but she retained control. "The truth," she whispered.

Elizabeth heaved a heavy sigh. "He lives," she said. _For the moment, anyway, _she thought _and if you will leave me in peace I can perhaps make another desperate attempt to ensure he stays that way!_ These thoughts were not at all like her. She wondered if they could be attributed to his influence. She forced herself to smile at the girl. "We will need to discuss your feelings about this _tomorrow_. At _length_. And then we will decide what we must do next."

Christine nodded. Her wide blue eyes indicated she had much to think about. "Th...thank you," she stammered. "I'll... go home and... think on it."

Christine turned to go and the door clicked shut behind her. Elizabeth ran the chain across the lock then turned abruptly as Erik began coughing again. She moved to his side.

About fifteen paces down the long hall, it occurred to Christine that she was not afraid at all anymore, curiously, and she turned back to say so. Then she hesitated. What had Elizabeth meant about what they would do next? What was there to do? There was nothing left to do now, for she no longer had visions of Erik. She was cured! Surely the visions had been brought about by guilt when she'd learned of his death. Those things do happen. She felt sure she'd read about it somewhere once. And yet... and yet... something didn't fit.

And then it clicked in her mind. She stood in the center of the hallway, paralyzed. Visions brought about by guilt over his death were not possible, for she had seen him five consecutive nights before she'd learned of his supposed death! Guilt over having left him, then, she tried to reason. Guilt that she and Raoul would have their happiness while he continued to suffer loneliness in that cellar, then! Except she hadn't actually felt guilty at all! She had more or less put it out of her mind entirely! Could putting something out of one's mind cause such visions? Elizabeth would know the answer to that. She would ask her tomorrow morning, first thing. She had learned what she had come to learn. Elizabeth had been forthright with her. He was alive. The cause of the visions could wait until tomorrow. She took a step toward the stairwell at the end of the hall.

Unless they had not been visions at all! She remembered Elizabeth's words: _most importantly, regardless of whether you stay in bed tonight or watch at the window,_ _you will not see him tonight_. If they had been visions how could she know that for certain? Was she so confident that she had been cured already by then?—only the second time they had talked? Unlikely. But she knew he was alive. How? Did she know where he was? How had she been sure he would not come that night?

She could not bear her curiosity. She retraced her steps to Elizabeth's door again.

"Elizabeth," she called at the door, and tapped lightly. No response. She knew the woman was inside, though. She stood, undecided whether to leave or knock again more loudly.

She heard soft voices inside—or, more appropriately, she heard Elizabeth speaking and some other sound—something like stifled coughing. Before she realized what she had done, she had grasped the knob and opened the door. It was latched with a chain, but it opened enough for her to peek through the small space.

The woman in black was perched carefully upon the edge of the bed with her knees toward the headboard. Beside where she sat, and very close, another dark figure lay in the bed with his head near the knees of the sitting woman, who gently supported his shoulders with her left arm while she pounded heavily on his back with the heel of her right hand, up and down, first on one side, then the other. He shuddered, coughing deeply and continuously for several minutes. With her left hand she lifted _a mask_ almost imperceptibly to allow him to breathe more easily, and _he allowed it_. At last the fit subsided into single coughs with deep gasping breaths between. "That's right," she murmured. "Deep breaths."

She moved her right hand soothingly up and down his back while with her left hand she produced a handkerchief from somewhere, dabbed at his lips, then gently readjusted the mask into place. She fluffed the pillow, shifted him back onto it on his side, then leaned down upon him in an awkward embrace. She placed her head against his back and gave a gentle squeeze, listening and comforting at once. When she straightened up again, her right hand remained upon him. He made a sound that was at once a wheeze and a groan.

There were some a dark-colored medicine bottles on the table beside her, and she reached around for one of them. He struggled up on one elbow as she poured a measured amount into a small cup and held it out to him. When he didn't reach for it, she lifted the mask with one hand and held it to his lips with the other. "Tastes terrible, I know," she said softly, easing him back onto his side on the pillow once again. "I'll get you some water," she added, running her right hand softly down the side of his head in a gentle caress. Then, in a single motion she turned and stood—and saw at the door, beneath the chain lock, a pair of pale blue eyes in a bloodless face.

She crossed the room and in an instant had the latch open and was outside with it shut again behind her.

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Chapter 31 received only one single review, so it's feeling really insecure compared to all the other chapters. I hope it just means that folks have decided to go back and check out the changes and review once they're all caught up, but one can never be certain.

Regarding chapter 32, I think of all the parts of this particular story, this one might be my favorite so far. It was certainly the most fun to write, anyway. I hope you enjoy it. Please review. Reviews equal motivation. Motivation equals more chapters.

Oh yeah--want more? The next chapter is ALMOST READY ALREADY. The more reviews I get the faster I post it...!  
(8:52 p.m. on Monday--the next chapter is finished, but should I post it, or not? Three more reviews and I'll put it up immediately. Otherwise... I'll put it up when _**I**_ can't take the suspense anymore...)


	33. Chapter 33: Astonishment

Disclaimer: All the usual disclaimers apply.

Author's Note: Who-hoo! AvidReader saves the day by posting review number 115, bringing the score for this chapter to a total of 12, which is, of course, actually 10 because I posted twice to respond to others. Just for that, AvidReader, this chapter is dedicated to _you_, for _all_ you do, because you _choose_ to _review_. Thank you _so_ much for your input. And just so no one feels left out, this chapter is dedicated to ALL those who reviewed the last chapter because you all are the greatest, and I really mean that.

I should also point out that that's two votes for Elizabeth and NONE for poor Christine! She thinks this is terribly unfair since, after all, she was created by the immortal Leroux and that should count for something. Erik's too delirious to express an opinion at present, and Elizabeth too busy hiding behind her therapist mask to express much of anything. That leaves it up to all of you. Where is this crazy story heading? (Honestly... I thought I knew, but who can ever tell anymore when these characters get out of hand like that! Imagine Christine opening that door! You'd have thought she'd have learned to curb her insatiable curiosity after that night she ripped off Erik's mask, but NO! Seems she always has the urges to reveal him at his most vulnerable, eh? What WAS she thinking?) Which brings us, quite appropriately, to what happens _next_ in the story. So, here 'tis. Cheerio!

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She advanced upon the girl angrily. She felt she could have grabbed her and shaken her soundly, but she remembered her promise to him. She was to help the child, not frighten her out of her wits yet again. In frustration she threw up her hands, and Christine cowered away as though she feared being struck.

"_What _were you... _thinking_?" She managed in a hoarse whisper. Her anger prevented her from finding the words to say what she felt.

The wide-eyed girl held out her hands in a gesture that said she did not know, placed her back against the wall on the other side of the hall and slid slowly down it to sit and embrace her own knees. She faced Elizabeth but did not meet her eyes. She shook her head.

Elizabeth turned from her, took two paces in each direction, then turned her back to the girl, pressed her fingertips against her eyes and made a concerted effort to calm herself. She opened the door a crack and glanced in. Oblivious, thank heavens. She dreaded to think… She closed the door again and pressed her back against it, then met the girl's eyes.

"I _knew_ you knew something," the incredulous Christine managed slowly, "but I had _no idea_..." she trailed off, unable to articulate her reaction.

Elizabeth slid to the floor as well against the wall opposite. Her anger faded as her exhaustion caught up with her. The two women looked at one another across the hall. Then suddenly Elizabeth leapt up again. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she did so. "I'd quite forgotten!" She made a sign to the other to wait and rushed back inside again to fetch the water, but he was already fast asleep. She set the glass on the table, stood staring down at him for a long moment then crept back out to the hall.

She nodded toward the door. "Sleeping," she said softly to the girl, as though she hadn't been angry with her for being there just a moment earlier.

"Ah," replied she, also nodding, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as though she had not been quite insane just recently over the same man. And then there was silence until Christine could not bear it any longer and finally said, "What _happened_ to him?"

Elizabeth stared tiredly at her. This was not the way it was supposed to have gone. When the time was right, when her fear was gone entirely (if such a thing were possible) and when Erik had been fully prepared and had consented, she would to carefully let Chrstine know he was alive. There would be preparations before this revelation, of course, in case her reaction was not a positive one. This was the purpose in seeking to determine which would frighten her more—that he was alive or dead. The next step would be to introduce the idea of some form of communication in an attempt to avoid what had happened that night. What type of arrangement would depend on the feelings of each of them. If it weren't for Raoul and Christine's terrible description of Erik, Elizabeth might have hoped engender some tender conversation. As it was now, it seemed the best she could hope for was a final goodbye, and perhaps that was asking too much. Regardless, any type of communication would require lengthy work with Erik as well, for if they were to _meet_, and Elizabeth felt strongly that such things should be done in person, Christine must be assured entirely that she was in no danger. Even if they were not to meet, Erik's promise not to attempt to manipulate Christine again would have to be secured first. If he could be convinced it was for Christine's well-being, perhaps he would agree, for hadn't he offered to lay "all his treasure" at her feet? Could she exchange that for _one simple promise_, perhaps?

Oh, but all her plans had been dashed when Christine suddenly showed up at the door! And now! What happened to him, she wanted to know! _You_ happened to him, she thought, and yet she knew that wasn't fair, really wasn't true at all. The girl couldn't be blamed for the fragile mental state that led him to his present physical condition. There were _so many_ other factors.

What could she say? He apparently starved himself after you left and was nearly dead when I found him, so that could be a factor. Of course, after I managed to save him _that time_, he happened to run into you and it threw him over the brink of reality into madness. He ate nothing for a week, but he played some dreadful music. Oh yes. And visited you often, which drove you mad as well. Then he… let's see… learned that he'd driven you out of your mind, so after he stood outside in the rain until he was soaked through, he slept the night on the floor. In his wet cloak. In a draught. Was that everything? Oh yes! There were also the endless heaving sobs that wracked his body all night. Yes, that was about all that happened to him. _These_ last two months anyway. Perhaps _you_ have a better idea what happened to him _before_ that and might be willing to share also?

"I can't discuss that, Christine," she said simply.

She looked hurt. "Why not?" It was a child's question.

"Christine, you've told me many things this week, have you not?"

"Yes, of course."

"Some of them about Erik, some of them about Raoul, correct?"

"Yes." She looked entirely puzzled.

"Whom do you think I tell these things?"

Her puzzlement deepened. "Raoul?" she guessed.

"You believe I tell him everything you say?"

What was the right answer? "I don't know!" she cried out. "What does that have to do with what happened to Erik?" She had her eyes fixed on the door as though she believed if she wished hard enough, she could see _through_ it.

"Christine, I don't tell anyone what you say. Not Raoul. Not Madam Valerius. _Not. Erik_. Do you understand?"

"Yes." It was tentative.

"If I wished to reveal something you said, I would ask you first. Understand?"

"Yes." She was still hesitant. She still stared at the door.

"I do the same for Erik."

This was an outrage! It was no explanation at all! "I haven't asked you to tell me what he says about anything!" she cried.

With seemingly infinite patience that neatly covered her rising anger Elizabeth took a deep breath and explained, "It really wouldn't be right to tell you anything about Erik without discussing it with him first. Not even something as simple as 'What happened to him?' Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her frustration was showing.

"Good."

The girl twisted the ring on her finger. "May I see him?" she asked softly.

The older woman's face tightened. "You've _seen_ him already," she said. "Entirely unplanned and without his knowledge. I think that's quite enough for now."

"I don't mean see him like that through the door!" she said, emphatically but in a whisper. "I mean come inside and visit him—"

"Absolutely not."

"Just for a moment. Just to greet him, perhaps."

"Out of the question."

"He'd _want_ to see me," she tried, then stopped. "I could help you," she suggested.

"A fortnight ago the thought of him—quite literally—frightened you out of your wits, and now you want to come inside and _visit_? And tend to him? Do you _hear_ yourself?"

"You said yourself I was conflicted..." she reasoned.

"We'll resolve that in your parlor, not here." Now the older woman's frustration showed, too. "And just today you were so firmly resolved!" she muttered softly.

"Not to _marry_ him, I said. That's _all_ I said. I told you I can scarcely bear to _look_ upon him. How could I possibly marry him? But how could anyone for that matter? He is too terrifying! No one could endure that. If anyone could have, it would have been I for we had—oh, we were _some_thing to one another! Oh, poor Erik! It's not at all his fault, you know! He can't help the way he looks! He asks for so little in life—just to be like others—not even! Just to be treated like others. To be treated normally..." she was working herself up to heavy sobs when a sudden idea occurred to her and she stopped, contemplating. "He doesn't terrify _you_?" she asked.

Elizabeth didn't answer but raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"I could sometimes _pretend_ not to be horrified," Christine continued. "But you are not an actress yourself..." she left the unspoken question hanging in the air.

Elizabeth smiled and evaded. "I do have a job that often requires me to hide my own feelings."

But Christine was shaking her head before she finished the statement. "No," she said. "I _watched_ you. _You weren't hiding anything_."

Ah. So the girl was not so foolish after all. She tried again. "One can get used to anything," she explained.

"...if one wishes." Christine added, though in her mind she was merely finishing the statement. "Did _he_ tell you that?"

"Why, no. It's a concept from a famous book. I believe the exact quote is 'Man is a creature that can get accustomed to anything.' I think it's rather true."

"If that's to mean all mankind, I think it's rather _untrue_. After all, man hasn't gotten used to Erik." It was true. "You, on the other hand... I ask you again—he doesn't terrify you _at all_? How do you manage it? I've tried. God knows I've tried. When he wore the mask, when he _sang_, I could cease to think on it for but a moment. The rest of the time—" she shuddered involuntarily and did not finish. "Even now the thought of him—though I am not frightened this moment—even still the very thought of him is repulsive. It's terrible, I know. When I should be worried about him—or... _should_ I be worried about him?"

"I can't tell you how to feel, Christine. That's not what I've done this last week with you. You know that."

"I know that. I meant _should I be worried_—is it—that _bad_?"

She closed her eyes briefly. "_I'm_ worried," she offered.

Christine's eyes widened further still in response. "And when you look at him..." she trailed off leaving a question in the air once again.

A heavy sigh. "I suppose I—Well, I've—I've learned… not to see him."

Christine stared at her a moment, open-mouthed in her astonishment. Then she said softly, in wonder, "You _love_ him."

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Okay, folks, please. Heart and soul in exchange for reviews. Seems a fair trade to me. Blood sweat and tears if you want. I promise. I know this one's a bit shorter, but it really seemed the point to break it. I'll try to make the next one longer... Just... gimme _some_thing to go on here, okay? What do you most want to see next? I'll try to work it in!


	34. Chapter 34: Unprepared

**Disclaimer:** Does anyone ever really own anything? I'm not claiming to, that's for sure.

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**Author's Note(s):**

1) Perhaps I should explain... To those who had some trouble with the line "I've learned not to see him" it's lifted directly from Leroux when Erik told Christine "You'll have learned not to see me." I'd like to think he meant it in the same sense as "One can get used to anything, if one wishes." I certainly didn't mean she finds him horrifying and ignores it but rather that she simply doesn't see the outside. I'll try to elaborate more later for future readers.

2) I should also explain that I wasn't suggesting that Christine _deserves_ any votes at all. I was doing that playful thing I do where I pretend that this is really happening and that all the characters are here and I'm just describing. I simply pointed out that "she" (Christine) thinks this is unfair because she was created by the immortal Leroux and that ought to count for something. I don't think a cannon character automatically trumps an original character every time, though I know some readers do... I also wouldn't vote for Christine myself. Rather, I was trying to be silly and also sort of poke fun at her a bit. You know... she says she thinks she deserves a vote because of her connections (Leroux) rather than stepping back and taking an honest look at how she's treated Erik and whether she actually SHOULD get a vote based on what's good for everyone involved. (Naturally, I am personally partial to my own character, so if it came to a knock down drag out between them, I'd be rooting for 'Liz all the way).

3) Truth be told, the final chapter is already written (but don't ask for it because it wouldn't make any sense right now and I'm not sharing it until we get there anyway) so don't anyone go getting the idea that I'm just drifting here... But the ideas that have been suggested are very good ones, so I'm GLAD I asked you all. Thanks. I'm not abandoning my ending or my direction--just trying to give everyone a bit of what they desire along the way. And by the way, a couple of you gave me great ideas that I probably wouldn't have come up with on my own, and I'm excited about that.

4) Oh yes. I'm actually heartless, therefore my offer was void as I can't pay up. My soul's not for sale either, having already gone to the highest bidder. And no one really wants blood, sweat or tears anyway, right? Icky.

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**Finally:  
A brief review of the end of the LAST chapter...**

Christine's eyes widened further still in response. "And when you look at him..." she trailed off leaving a question in the air once again.

A heavy sigh. "I suppose I—Well, I've—I've learned… not to see him."

Christine stared at her a moment, open-mouthed in her astonishment. Then she said softly, in wonder, "You _love_ him."

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And now... chapter 34!

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Elizabeth was entirely unprepared for this revelation and took some time to formulate a response.

"My dear," she began, "Love is a very peculiar word. It has so many varied meanings and yet people still have yet to define it. Suffice to say I would not leave him—or any human being—to die, to suffer..."

"Human..." Christine whispered. So many people easily thought otherwise at first encounter. How long had she known him? She was apparently not afraid of him, she mused. Had he not terrified her _first_? What new technique had he employed to ensnare her before he'd fallen ill? Oh, he was very clever! But how exactly had he managed _this_? He had learned from his mistakes with her, no doubt, handled it better this time around. But the Opera had been closed during and following the investigations! How—

"How long have you known him?" she finally asked. She was watching the older woman with narrowed eyes.

"Since before I met you. Dare I tell you? It was because of a promise I made him that I came to you at all."

Christine was breathless. "What promise?"

But Elizabeth was looking at the darkening window at the end of the hall, then glancing at her watch. "We can't continue to talk here," she said. "They'll be by in a bit and it will seem strange, our sitting in the hallway like this. Don't you think it strange?"

Christine shrugged. She had become accustomed to speaking of private matters in strange places not so long ago. At least the doors of _this_ hallway were all visible and one could discern easily if someone were coming or going through one. She smiled sheepishly as she realized how bizarre it would undoubtedly look to hotel staff. "Sorry," she said. "An opera house tends to ruin one, I suppose," and she didn't realize until after she'd said it the multiple meanings that it suggested. "So, where _shall_ we talk?"

"Christine," Elizabeth implored her. "Go home. Rest. It has been a very eventful day. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Christine was shaking her head. "No," she said. "No. I mean, all right, it doesn't matter; you can come again tomorrow if you wish, but I must know what promise tonight or I shall not sleep. You are always telling me to rest, and how can I now if I know but do not know? How will I—"

"Christine," she gently rebuked her, "that is manipulation—"

"I don't care what you call it; I _must_ know. If you won't let me see him you can at least tell me what promise you made him. I've told you about mine!"

Again with the twisting of the ring. At some point Elizabeth would have to persuade Erik to release Christine from that particular promise, for it would eat away at her for the rest of her sure-to-be-diminished-by-these-events life without providing any real value to him, either, since he would have to be dead in order to derive any "benefit" from it at all.

Could there be any harm in telling her of the promise? But how long had they been here in the hall already? What was intended to be an abrupt reprimand and a sending away of the girl had turned easily into thirty minutes conversation—at least! Cafes would be closed or closing. The restaurant downstairs was not private enough. Two ladies walking alone at this hour would not be prudent. And she _could not_ invite her in.

"Go downstairs and tell the concierge you are waiting for me. You might additionally make mention of that fact that I am likely waiting for a delivery from the kitchen. Tell the valet we'll need a carriage—something private. I shall accompany you to your home and then return. That is all. Anything more must wait until tomorrow—which I daresay is not long off at all by now."

Christine nodded and dashed off down the hall as Elizabeth wearily reentered the room. Seemingly miraculously, Erik was entirely unaware of the long exchange that had taken place between the two women just a few meters away from where he lay gasping. His eyes were closed, but he was no longer asleep. Elizabeth had learned to tell the difference in his breathing throughout the evenings she watched over him. She knelt at the edge of the bed and touched him on the shoulder. "I don't know what you intended when you asked me to promise this," she whispered, "but I hope it will please you to know that as regards the 'poor sweet child' you feared you had 'perhaps destroyed' I'm rather certain you didn't." At this his eyelids fluttered and she squeezed his hand. "I need to go back out. You won't mind, surely." He shook his head ever so slightly and squeezed back as a knock at the door caused her to jump. She drew her hand away rapidly.

Christine _again_, she thought with frustration? But it was only her tray, on which she was pleased to discover soup as well as some other things that would no doubt be more difficult for him to eat. She wanted stay, take the time it took to help him with it, yet she knew that for some reason he had regressed with regards to the wearing of the mask before her, so she placed the tray on the table and knelt beside the bed again. She touched the edge of the mask lightly. "You can take it off to eat, you know. You'll be completely—" she stopped herself. No. She wouldn't say "alone" to him now. "You'll be entirely in private," she concluded carefully. She gave his hand a final squeeze as she slipped away scarcely noticing that she had to tug to loose it from his fingers. Once in the hall she carefully locked the door with the key.

She found Christine standing in the lobby staring out one of the windows into the night and was not surprised to notice standing nearby several young men who were apparently staying in the hotel as well. They were staring at Christine as she stared out the window, virtually unaware of them, at least for the moment. No, Erik had never stood a chance, had he?

"What promise?" Christine demanded again as soon as the doors of the carriage had closed behind them.

Elizabeth heaved a sigh. "You don't ever let anything go, do you?"

"The promise," she insisted.

"How did you come to be in the asylum in the first place, Christine?"

What had that to do with anything? Was she trying to distract her? She narrowed her eyes. "You've heard this before, but I'll play along if I must to learn of the promise," she said. "That night I could not sleep I sat up by the window, and I saw him in the carriage with the open front. Then I saw him several other nights—every night, actually. I believed I saw him standing—well, I guess he really _was_ standing on the sidewalk beneath my window. I told Mamma Valerius, and I told Raoul. They couldn't see him. Thinking back on it now, I imagine it was one of his vanishing tricks, but as Raoul thought him dead—Oh, how angry he will be when he realizes he is not!" She had apparently only just now though of that! "—they quickly concluded he was not there, I had imagined him, and when I insisted that it was real, they thought I had lost my mind. They _told_ me he was dead. Showed me the proof in the _Epoque_. I thought that meant he must be haunting me and everything inside me came apart. I don't remember that day so well. There was a doctor. Then they took me away for the night. The following morning they decided I would be treated at home, so they sent you. But I can't see how _that_ has anything at all to do with _your making a promise to Erik_." These last six words were an accusation of withholding promised information, and it was perfectly set up for the proper response.

"It has everything to do with my promise to Erik. The night they took you away, Erik came to me, distraught. He feared for you. He had come to believe—perhaps it was my fault, actually—that such places are not good places to go to get better. I promised him that I would... let's see... his exact words were... 'find a way to save her.' I could not gain access to you at the asylum, so I persuaded the Comte to remove you from it instead."

Her eyes were wide again. "You don't _work_ for the _hospital_?" Her voice was nearly a shriek.

"Hush now. It won't do to go getting hysterical again. No, I don't work for the hospital. I didn't tell you I did, Christine. I only said I was there to help. If you recall, you addressed me as doctor and I told you quite plainly I was not."

"But Raoul said—" She stopped. In the silence that followed they could hear the horse's hooves striking the cobbles ahead of them. "He lied to me again, then. You see how it is? _No_ one ever tells the truth to me!"

"Does he do this often then?"

She sighed. "As often as he feels he needs to in order to protect me, yes."

Silence.

"I didn't realize you didn't know. I came to him voluntarily. It seems the doctors all believed the bit in the _Epoque_, too. That was a serious concern. What good could it possibly do to convince you that you had dreamed him up when you hadn't?"

"You told him? Raoul _knows_? He knows Erik is alive?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"He didn't tell me that either!" she burst out.

"Hush now. For what it's worth, you really weren't in any state to hear it just then."

"_That _time perhaps! What of all the _other_ times they've lied to me? No. This... This is...not..." She was shaking her head back and forth almost frantically.

"Christine. Calm yourself, else you'll give everyone fuel to prove that it was wiser not to tell you anything. I'll tell you everything in time, but tonight we really must stop. We're almost there now, you see? And I must go back directly, don't you think?"

"Oh God." She looked around. They were, indeed, almost there.

"Mustn't I go back immediately? You understand of course why I must."

"Oh, yes. I see. Yes," she said as the recognition slowly sunk in. She was still flustered, though. She glanced out the window again as they neared the stop. "One thing, though. You said you came to Raoul voluntarily. Why?"

"It's as I've told you. Because I promised _him_."

"_Why?_"

"Because he asked..."

"But _why?_ I can tell you why. To protect me. That's what they do, isn't it? It's what they think they do. But what about me? Don't I get a say in things? Who's to protect me from _them_? From all their horrible 'protecting'?" She folded her arms and fairly pouted. "I've had it with them both."

Elizabeth wanted to say"Give them both a chance" and "They thought they were doing the right thing," but she knew better so she was silent a long time, then she said "You're angry. You have the right to be angry. That gives us something to talk about tomorrow, doesn't it?"

"We have _so_ much to talk about tomorrow," Christine replied coldly. "We shall need a month of tomorrows."

"Then we'll have them."

"_Prom_ise?"

Oh, now the child had mastered sarcasm as well! Where had she learned that, pray tell? "Do you want me to?" It was a simple honest question.

Christine dropped her guard, her sarcasm, her anger. "I don't know. I don't really have the right to be angry after all, though. I kept secrets from them both, too. And _I_ don't keep _my_ promises either."

She was twisting that damned ring again! For_get_ that promise at least for now; he's _not dead_! She touched the girl's hands. "I think it's best you don't keep that one right at the moment," she said softly. "Wouldn't be a good idea to bury him alive." She hadn't really intended to be amusing, but somehow Christine burst into relieved laughter. Elizabeth afforded herself the luxury of a smile.

"Tomorrow then?" Christine asked.

"Actually, I may be late. I need the morning to look into some things. I will send a message for the Comte." She rationalized that she needed the time to look into finding someplace to hide Erik, but the truth was she was tired and needed a break. Some of the things Christine had said to her disturbed her greatly and she needed time to reflect. When she directed the driver to return her to the hotel, she fully intended to return the follow day midmorning or early afternoon. By the time she arrived, she was seriously considering the possibility of sending word that she would need the day to herself.

She crept quietly into the hotel room lest she disturb her guest. She lit the dim lamp and crept quietly across the room. She could not help but glance at the bed. He was curled tightly about himself and trembling as though in fear, though she rather suspected chills instead, for he had entirely wound himself in the sheets, though the heavier blankets had somehow fallen to the floor—no doubt he'd thrown them off during a hot spell. She rang for service and requested additional bed linens and blankets. She tipped heavily to avoid questions and shut the door quickly. She shut the door and locked it. Latched the chain as well. Wished there was something more she could do to keep the world out.

Yes, it was late. A simple glance at her watch could have told her that, but instead she took it off and dropped it to the bureau without looking at its face and turned instead to the face, or rather the mask, of the man Christine had accused her of loving. Could it possibly be true? She could not say for certain. It had been so long since she'd loved anyone she wasn't sure she remembered what it was supposed to feel like exactly. And, as it not gone so well the only time she'd tried it, she couldn't be certain what she remembered had been the authentic feeling at all. What she did know for certain was that when she looked at the figure on the bed something moved inside her in ways that she had never—yes _never_—felt before and she felt compelled to act in strange ways. She could rationalize her actions, certainly. There were perfectly logical reasons for everything she did, but there were also her secret underlying reasons which she admitted to no one, not even herself. She insisted upon removing the mask this time. He'd worn it constantly for over a week. It simultaneously hampered his breathing and harbored bacteria. It desperately needed sterilization. But in reality, she merely wanted to remove the barrier between them.

It was a noble attempt, surely, but initially unsuccessful. He pushed her hands away, turned from her, put his arms over his head in a protective gesture that would have been amusing had she not ideas about what seriousness it might importune. He let his guard down for only a moment—to ineffectively snatch at the blankets. She abandoned her venture and unfolded the blankets instead. She hurriedly readied herself for bed choosing linens for herself and heaping everything else upon him. He cowered beneath her touch. She reached for him and against his helpless protests drew him to her.

"Hush," she told him with gentle caresses beneath which he seemed to recoil. "Please," she implored him. "I'm trying to help you." She reached for a medicine bottle and found it inexplicably light. She held it up to the lamp then shook him until he ceased to fight her and regarded her, unblinking, through the eyeholes of the mask. "How much?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Enough to... make it stop," he sputtered, though it was apparently not sufficient after all, for the sentence was interrupted by a slight cough.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath and he cringed. "Please..." he whispered. "Don't."

And his eyes looked so fearful that she could not even begin to ask what but instead embraced him and caressed him assuring him "Of course not" without knowing. She rearranged the blankets to give herself something to do with her hands. She wrapped one of the blankets about him bringing it behind him and over the back of his head, for it being spring, she had not been able to find a stocking cap in any of the stores, and she had not the time nor the heart for knitting in over fifteen years. After she had bundled him tightly and leaned him against herself rubbing her hands over the blankets which covered him until the shaking subsided he managed to ask her "Why?"

Why had she been so unendingly cruel to him these most recent few days? It was true he had never before known true kindness; he was used to cruelty and expected it. But to alternate kindness with harshness in this manner was a new breed of nastiness entirely which left one always unprepared, never certain which to expect. And because the kindness had been so longed for throughout the course of many long years, the taste of it made the cruelty all the harder. He did not say it so simply. He groped for words in the dimly lit room. He was interrupted by coughing and his voice shook when the chills returned. Elizabeth understood not a word of it and assumed he was delirious again. She tried to hush him, to encourage him to sleep, but he continued. "Why couldn't you have left me to die?" he asked in one breath and in the next "I feel for certain I am dying now."

She became frantic at this, sitting up and trying to turn towards him to meet his eyes. "Absolutely not," she insisted. Then, suddenly, she was pleading. "You won't," she insisted. "Please. Don't go." She had balled her hands into fists against his chest and he shrunk back as though in alarm, his deep-set eyes wide and shimmering.

"Again?" he asked, and his voice was thick with pain.

Her eyes showed her puzzlement plainly and she asked aloud "_What_ again?"

He blinked, then turned away. "Perhaps I was dreaming, then. It is not unlikely. I have always had such terrible dreams."

She drew him to her again and held him tightly. "Tell me," she whispered. She was prepared to listen to all the horrifying visions he'd endured throughout the duration of his life. She was entirely unprepared for what he told her instead.


	35. Chapter 35: Nightmare

**Disclaimer:** I only own the stuff I make up.

**Author's Note:** First of all, please don't hate me for this chapter. Secondly, I'm sorry it's sort of short. I'll try to make up for it later.

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Elizabeth readied herself for horrors. The world was unkind. She knew this. She'd seen it. Now he was to finally tell her what it had done to him. She would listen. She fought down all her emotion and presented her calm placid face, prepared to listen.

"I have always had such terrible dreams," he said again "One gets used to such things I suppose. They do not surprise me anymore. But this... this has been like one long nightmare. I am sure I am awake and yet it continues. I am a fool, perhaps, for I expected better from you."

Elizabeth felt as though a heavy weight had hit her. From her? What had she to do with these dreams? Or with the cruelty of the world. She longed to ask, but she would wait.

"It was like... nothing I have ever experienced before. Inexplicable heat. I was surely burning. It was as I imagine hell—if it exists—to be. It was as though my eyes were on fire. My head pounded heavily. Not to breathe was like torture, but the act of breathing, far greater agony still. I wanted to cry out, but I knew I must not be discovered if I hoped to survive, and so I suffered it—silently. I thought perhaps I could endure it if I could distract my mind. I thought of her—of _Christine_. I _tried _to think of her, but even as I did so, I knew—and I know now—that she would not come to save me from my agony, from my suffering, from my... misery.

"And I felt myself falling and as I fell I heard voices taunting me, voices saying I deserved to die, voices calling me monster and—and—_other_ things. And I reached out for something to grab hold of, but there was nothing, only emptiness. And falling..."

Elizabeth bit her lip and blinked back her reaction.

"...then it was cold, and I wished for the fire again, for the cold was more unbearable still. My mother passed by with a look of revulsion upon her face and I held my arms out to her, but she ran from me. And I wrapped my arms about myself, but it was not enough, and my teeth chattered and my bones shook and I could hear them clatter against one another, and I could hear the voices, and they were laughing, saying it was what I deserved after all I had done. And I tried to cry out, but I could not speak, could not breathe. It was as if a heavy weight were atop of me and I struggled.

"Then there was more falling. And more fire. And you—I swear it was you!—you walked out of the fire and I thought "I am saved at last!" I don't know why I thought this, for I scarcely know you, but this is what I thought! And I held out my arms to you, and I reached for you, but you were too far away. And the voices were taunting me and I knew that they were close by, waiting to take me away. I must be absolutely silent, lest they find me. Then someone grabbed me by the shoulder. Someone tore at my mask, and I felt—" Dare he say it? But he'd said so much already! It didn't matter, for the end was near... "I felt—_fear_. I cannot describe to you that terrible fear of what they would do to me when they saw beneath it—" he shuddered and it required all her self control to remain where she was and let him finish.

"The room—the very walls—were breathing, but _I_ could not. I could only gasp and watch the walls heave in and out as I could not. And you were there, where you had stepped out of the fire, and I reached for you, for somehow I felt certain you could save me. But—but you—you were—you were _angry_. You were _shouting_. I could not breathe, and you were _cross with me_ for it. And I ached. Oh, how I ached, how every bone in my body rattled, how every muscle, every sinew throbbed in utter pain. And you _scolded_ me."

It was here that he at last began to cry. He didn't look at her and she was glad of it, for she had been crying since he seen her step out of the fire—first with joy that he had dared to realize that she would save him and then with utter horror as she realized how he had misinterpreted everything.

He drew a ragged breath "You struck me," he said, horrified at the memory. "Again and again and again, you struck me. When _I..._ I had _reached_ for you."

"Erik, I—"

"No." He hung his head and held up a hand to her. He must finish this now, while he could, for he was certain there was little time.

"No. You left. You left me alone with the voices and I had to listen to them. To wonder whether they would come for me, whether they would find me! And I had to lie silently all the while. And when I resigned myself to dying there alone, you would suddenly materialize and do something kind and trick me into believing that it had all been a terrible dream. And I—the fool!—I _believed_ you. But you were just like everyone else. You... _hit_ me, just like everyone else."

She felt cold all over, her stomach heavy as though filled with lead. "Erik, I won't—" she stammered, feeling something rising in her throat. "I'm not—" She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Tears fell from her eyes but she was not aware of them. "Oh, god, Erik..." She felt her face grow suddenly hot and her lips begin to tingle. "Not leaving," she cried out, disentangling herself from the sheet. "Will return." She took three running steps to the bathroom and was violently ill. She shuddered and shook. She alternately cried and vomited and cried again.

He could hear her from the bed where he remained, wrapped in the blankets she had provided—had actually wrapped him in, as a matter of fact. He could hear the pained sound of her retching and he thought, _At last, she is like all the others. At least this, I understand. Now I disgust even her._ Though it was not a pleasant thought, it was at least a familiar one, and it eased his confusion with her. He sunk back into the pillows, still fearful and ashamed. For now, he was trapped here, for he was not strong enough to go far. Or was he? He was not so very far from the Opera he recalled. He had walked her only a few nights ago, it seemed...

At length her wave of nausea passed and she stretched herself out on the floor, still crying. The floor felt cool against her flushed face. She closed her eyes. What had she done wrong, she wondered? Well, it was simple, really. She'd thought she could repair years of ridicule and isolation in a few short weeks. Absurd, really. What a fool she was. And to have allowed herself to get close to him as well. She had made some serious errors. This is why she worked beneath Wilhelm rather than beside him. All her plans for the future would come to naught, for she was foolish and inept, not to mention overly emotional. It was because she was a woman, Wilhelm would say. He would say it endearingly, but it would sting anyway. Damn them all, she thought and picked herself up off the floor.

She looked in the mirror. _If you think you are hideous, Erik, you should take a look at this_ she thought bitterly. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her face was red and tear streaked. Worse, there was vomit in hair. She gagged again just thinking about it and set to cleaning herself up. Once cleaning, she found it difficult to stop. Over the course of the past week, things had piled up. Having Erik in her room made it impossible to allow hotel staff to clean the room, and it showed. When the bathroom was in better condition, she moved back to the bedroom.

For a moment she couldn't bring herself to look at him. Her feelings ran from hurt that he had misinterpreted her actions to anger that he could be so ungrateful to guilt that perhaps it was her own fault for not being more tender, more gentle, more sure he understood her intentions. She sorted clothing into piles, sorted linens into piles, rearranged her toiletries, organized her books and notes on the small table. But she couldn't keep her back to him long. She turned. But there was no one there.

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Reviews, anyone? Speculations, anyone? Please don't forget to leave me feedback. It's SO helpful...


	36. Chapter 36: Unrequited

**Disclaimer:** I still own _only_ that which I create. And lately, I'm not even too sure about _that_ as it seems to think it owns itself.

**Author's Note:** Okay, everyone... I'm posting this anyway, even though I'm not sure it's entirely polished. Rip it up if you need to. We bought this laptop today and struggled with it a couple hours this evening which really cut into my editing time and kept me from my ULTIMATE plan which was to edit this rather quickly and then go write a WHOLE lot of what's supposed to happen next... so, against my better judgment, because I feel the need to keep my commitment to post often... Please make comments and corrections--especially the latter as I'm sure there'll be a lot of those--and I promise to fix all the little typos and things. Also, this probably doesn't sound as polished as I hoped it would... Feel free to make suggestions there, too. I was SO frustrated with this stupid new computer (the one I am not using at the moment because I am angry with it) that I just couldn't even concentrate. Stupid thing... set me back two hours and god only knows how many pages!! Grrr...

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Her eyes darted around the room and fell upon the chain on the door. It was hanging loose. She was certain she had latched the chain as well as the lock on the knob. She thought through it again. Yes. She had latched the door, latched the chain. She opened the door, still in her nightclothes and rushed into the hall.

Oh, thank heavens! He was standing at the end of the hallway leaning heavily upon the windowsill and gazing out the window to the east across the city. She glanced up and down the hall. Fortunately, no one was about. Of course, it was not so surprising as it was surely after midnight! She rushed to his side, took him by the shoulder. "Erik, it's not safe here!" she hissed in his ear.

"You win," he responded. His voice had a strange tone of defeat.

"Come," she tugged at him.

"I'm a prisoner then," he said leaning heavily upon her.

"Oh, don't let's be so silly. Come along," she tried to turn him from the window.

"It's not so far, really," he said. She stopped and followed his gaze. Rising above the lower buildings she could see the domed top of the Opera shining by the light of the full moon.

"Homesick, are you?" she kept her voice light. No need to have him think she was angry with him when she was merely trying to accomplish a goal. "Then I'll get you back soon enough. But I think we'd both prefer it if we didn't have to explain to the staff what you're doing here."

He met her eyes. Her eyes were frantic. She was angry again, then? Angry with him? He shut his eyes tight. Prepared for blows.

How could he react so? She let go of him and moved a few paces away. "Erik, please!" she begged. It would have been so much easier to pull him, but she didn't dare touch him now. She twisted her hands together until they ached. She pleaded with her voice and her eyes. Eventually he staggered back to the room and collapsed to his knees just inside the door—which she closed. And locked. And latched. And leaned against.

"I was so sure I could have made it," he murmured. "What's happened to me?"

"Pneumonia, most likely," she said matter-of-factly from her place by the door. "Look at me, Erik. _Listen_ to me. This is a matter of life and death. Are you _trying_ to die?"

The question puzzled him. He hadn't considered it. He was rather certain it was inevitable. Was it necessary to make an effort on his part? He shook his head slightly. No, actually he wasn't. Not this time. This time it was just—happening. With or without his consent. Should he consent? He had wished for death before, yes. A life without Christine, a life without love of any kind—what was the point? But he had lived a life without love before--all his life, actually--and he had not been so fixated on dying then. No, he wouldn't go out of his way to bring about death. He just wasn't willing to put forth the effort to fight it off.

"Then you must try to trust me for now. You can hate me later if you wish. First, live." She left her place by the door and dropped to her knees near him, but still out of arms' reach, and looked into his eyes; they were dark and hazy. Damn codeine, she thought. Would he even remember a word of this? "Please," she insisted. "Lie down."

He looked at her, confused. She pointed. He followed the gesture of her arm to the bed. But it seemed so far away—further than the opera house had looked, actually. It was then that he became aware that he was not at all himself. "What's happened to me?" he asked again.

"Too much of what's in the brown bottle, remember?"

He struggled to his feet. There was no help this time. She remained on her knees on the floor, watching him, aloof. Detached. Why was she doing this to him?

She waited until he reached the bed then dragged the straight-backed chair from the table to his side. He looked at her carefully. Was this the same woman at all? She could be first so gentle, then so cruel? And now so distant?

She peered into his eyes from the distance of the chair. What was he thinking now, she wondered. She longed to tear the mask away but remembered that was one of his many accusations of her. She didn't dare. She was hesitant to even touch him. Could she ever make this right?

"Erik," she said softly. He appeared to be listening. "I'm so sorry," she said. "You're angry with me. I think you have a right to be. I must tell you that things did not happen exactly the way you perceived they did, but it doesn't matter. I will take the blame for leaving it in such a way that it could be perceived that way. Could we start again, please?"

He blinked. That voice. So gentle. _Could_ it be the same woman?

"Erik, do you remember asking me to do something? About Christine?"

"Christine," he murmured. "She would not come for me..."

"So sure are you?" He did not react. "Erik, do you remember when they put her in the asylum?"

"Oh, Christine!" He had almost forgotten.

"So you remember?" He nodded miserably. "You recall what you asked me to do? To do whatever it took to get her out of there?"

More nodding. That was easy. He could do that.

"I went to her home. I convinced her family to remove her and let me talk to her. She is at home. I have seen her every day this week. I want you to know _she's fine_."

He nodded. It felt like he had been nodding for eternity.

"We need to talk about her, but you should rest first. You're not entirely yourself, I don't think."

"She didn't come," he managed. "It is finished."

"Maybe so. And maybe for the best. You did, after all, release her and tell her to marry the Comte de Chagny, you know."

"Yes..." Immediately afterward he'd done it, he'd thought it was his greatest mistake. Later he concluded it was easier to simply die and let her, at least, be happy if he could not be. Now he realized either way he would not have been. What did that mean for him? "Did she?"

The conversation was entering dark swirling waters. To say yes was to lie. To say no, perhaps to mislead him. To refuse to answer, to lose his trust. "Not yet, for we frightened her terribly that night in the carriage."

What do you think that night in the carriage did to me? But he didn't say it. Instead he just sighed.

"She is fine now. That is the important part. They believed you were dead. She saw you. Naturally, they thought she was hallucinating. As it turns out, she wasn't. Simply solved, you see?"

It wasn't entirely his fault then? But who now knew that he was alive? That _boy_? Others? This could be very bad.

"She knows you are here."

Here? Why? _How?_

"And as she is worried, as soon as you are well you and I shall need to determine—"

"Worried?"

"I'm sorry. She followed me here. She opened the door. Lord, was it just earlier tonight? That is why I had to go back out. You remember that I had to go back out?"

"I tried to tell you... not to go."

"I asked if you would mind. You shook your head."

"I tried to hold onto you..." He was now fixated on this, not that. Couldn't seem to handle the transitions in conversation.

"I'm sorry, Erik. What would you have had me do? Leave her in the hallway? Bring her inside?"

Realization dawned on him slowly. "No." But what else had she said? "She saw me... like this?"

Elizabeth lowered her eyes, bowed her head. He noted that she looked rather lovely in a hazy, blurry way; then he rebuked himself internally for such a thought. _You do not have the right to think such things_ he reminded himself. _Someone like you does not have the right to look upon such as either of them. It is incredible either of them shows the slightest concern at all for the likes of you._

"She would not worry for me," he said softly. "She loves _him_..."

She lifted a hand to reach for him, hesitated and returned it to her lap. "Erik, there are so many kinds of love. Just because she doesn't love you the way you wanted her to doesn't mean she doesn't love you at all. She can't help the way she feels...

"She doesn't love me," he said miserably. "If you had seen the way I look, you would understand why."

"I _have_ seen the way you look, Erik."

That's right, he thought. He remembered the sounds from the bathroom. "Then you _do_ understand. It's not her fault, of course... I am so hideous. No one could love… this."

"You never know," she tried to say lightly, but her heart was pounding and her voice quavered. There was a long silence and then, finally she managed to whisper, "Maybe _I_ do." She felt her face flush instantly.

"Don't be foolish," he said. His voice was so distant she wondered if he'd understood at all. Part of her hoped he hadn't. She really hadn't meant to say so aloud at all.

There was what seemed an interminably long silence in which Elizabeth thought back over the conversation and felt far worse than foolish. She ridiculed herself internally. She waited.

She had just begun to think he had fallen asleep when he finally whispered "She worries?"

She sighed gratefully. He had changed the subject. "Terribly. Still worse, I told her I couldn't discuss you with her at all. She's entirely without information, save what she learned by glancing in."

"Ah... She's seen me like this?"

_Hadn't she already told him that?_ She heaved a heavy sigh. "Yes. And she wants to know everything. How you came to be here, how I know you, all of it. It is not her business to know, but it will be terribly difficult to keep her trust if I remain mute. What _shall_ I tell her?"

"Tell her whatever you wish," he replied tiredly, closing his eyes. She looked at him carefully. No. He wasn't even coherent, was he?

"I'll ask you again in the morning," she said. She moved her hand to push back his hair but hesitated. She would not touch him without permission. She must be so careful. "Erik," she said. His eyes opened, flicked to her. Her voice was barely audible. "When did I strike you?"

His eyes were exhausted. "Every... night..." he whispered closing his eyes again.

Her lips were by his ear. "Here?" she breathed placing a hand so lightly upon his back she felt certain he could scarcely feel it at all.

He did not answer but winced as though in pain. She tried to look at his face. His eyes were shut tight but the tears trickled through. "Oh," she began, but she couldn't say a word. She abandoned the distance, pulled him to her, caressed him, rocked him, stroked his hair. He fell asleep there like that with her arms around him. She listened to the sound of his breathing. Was she fooling herself or did it sound a bit clearer? She closed her eyes, but guilt and worry kept her awake. She wrapped body around his as though trying to bandage a wound. She remained there, awake and guilty, all night long. It was only as the curtains were beginning to lighten ever so slightly with the sunrise that she realized—and at first she doubted herself and she ran her hands over him carefully finding a place on the back of his neck where she could put her hand against bare skin—that his temperature felt normal to the touch. Only then did she drift off to sleep and she slept peacefully until he suddenly roused her by pushing her away.

She reached out protectively but he was not frantically thrashing about with nightmares. He was awake and looking at her. She peered into his golden eyes and they were clear. Was he still angry then? Fearful? But his eyes looked more... confused? "Erik, it's all right," she began.

"What—" he began looking around, and he seemed absolutely horrified, "am I doing _in your bed_?"

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Reviews, anyone? Sorry for the errors. As I said, it was a rough night computer-wise. Tough to edit when the computer malfunctions, you know? Please review anyway and I'm QUITE sorry if it's very bad. I was rather stressed...


	37. Chapter 37: Aftermath

**Disclaimer:** Phantom of the Opera owns me (not the other way around).

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**Author's Note:** Okay... here's my next little bit of nonsense to add to this little thing that started as a drabble and became the novel-length fic that is consuming my already too-busy life. I wrote it during a school board meeting so... yeah... some pain and agony I was feeling might have crept in. Oh! And I just HAVE to tell you all that I have TOTALLY figured out not just generally but EXACTLY what is going to happen next and then next and then next, and all you have to do is wait for me to type it all because it's totally DONE in my HEAD! (Sorry... I know I'm entirely out of line here, but it's exciting not to have to worry about what's going to happen when anymore.)

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**For those who don't like to click back, when we left off last chapter...**  
Only then did she drift off to sleep and she slept peacefully until he suddenly roused her by pushing her away.  
She reached out protectively but he was not frantically thrashing about with nightmares. He was awake and looking at her. She peered into his golden eyes and they were clear. Was he still angry then? Fearful? But his eyes looked more... confused? "Erik, it's all right," she began.  
"What—" he began looking around, and he seemed absolutely horrified, "am I doing _in your bed_?"

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Oh, was _that _all? she thought. If she wasn't mistaken, he actually _sounded_ a little better, too. Keep it light, she reminded herself. "Sleeping," she replied. "Or so I thought. Apparently not, though; your eyes are open. It is what _I_ was doing. Until a moment ago. Honestly, Erik. It's early. Go back to sleep." She closed her eyes but she could feel his stare boring into her. She opened her eyes and looked back at him. "Is something _wrong_?"

He didn't answer as he slowly stood and looked down at himself. She propped her head on one hand, leaning casually on her elbow. She could feel him trying desperately to remember how he'd gotten into the pajamas and for some reason that she could not quite place, she rather enjoyed watching him wonder. When the tension in the room was so thick she felt he could likely stand it no longer she said flatly "I don't know how you got into them either. I wasn't here when it happened."

He relaxed visibly and she could not contain a short burst of laughter. He took a step away from the bed and steadied himself by placing a hand on the bedside table. "Erik, please. You still need to rest." He seemed to be trembling.

"Obviously," he responded sinking back onto the bed. He turned slowly toward her. "This will not do." He pointed to the bed.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I was just getting up anyway," she said.

He looked at her tired face, the lines around her eyes more prominent than usual, and darkness creeping in beneath them. "Somehow, I doubt that," he said.

She folded both arms across her face. "All right. I admit it," she said, her voice muffled beneath them. "We have a problem. We need to find you a place to stay."

She moved her arms away as she could feel that stare again. Tired flames flickered in his eyes. "Perhaps you have forgotten. I _have_ a place to stay. Rather larger than this. And have it entirely to myself at present, actually."

She rolled her eyes. "Perhaps you have forgotten that last night you were _dying_." She snatched up one of the bottles and waved it before his eyes. "At least, that's what you told me. Remember?"

He did seem to remember some strange conversations, holding someone's hand, trying to keep someone from leaving, staring out a window, falling onto the floor. Had that been just _last night_? He looked at her. He remembered some other terrifying things. He looked quickly away and sighed. _Wait. That didn't feel right_. He took another deep breath, looked back at her, then back at the bottle in her hand. He coughed experimentally. The sound was deep and wet. It startled him.

"Erik," she said softly. "I know it's home to you, but it's cold and moist down there. Please don't go back there yet. I'll find you another place."

Another place indeed! _She_ would find it for him? Did she think him that incapable of providing for himself? He was insulted—except he didn't have quite enough pride left to be entirely insulted. It was more like feigning insult while beneath it he felt humiliation. After all, it was true. He wasn't providing for himself at all. She was. And had been. And had seen weakness in him. This would not do. It was not _safe_. He glanced around the small room at the pile of papers on the table, the pile of clothing on the floor and the enormous heap of blankets upon the bed. "How long…" he swallowed down a cough, "have I been here?"

She rolled her eyes skyward, calculating. "Well, I haven't been keeping track, really, as I've been a bit busy," she smiled at her understatement, "but… best estimate… a little over a week, maybe… if you count—"

"A week—" he burst out but interrupted himself coughing, then fumbled about for a handkerchief, and, finding the pajamas had no pockets, swallowed hard and trembled disgustedly. Elizabeth put her hands over her face to cover her smile. There was nothing funny at all, but as relief washed over her—for this was decidedly _not_ a dying man—she suddenly felt entirely given over to nervous laughter. She held her breath until it passed. "A week," he began again, this time in a much more subdued voice. "In _that_ bed?" he pointed.

Elizabeth could only nod, one hand over her mouth, trying desperately to look serious, concerned. Before she could begin to explain there was a heavy knock at the door and they both jumped. Erik stumbled to the other side of the room as Elizabeth stepped to the door and called through it, "Yes?" It was only a message that a package had been delivered for her. "Could you… could you just leave it outside the door, please? I'm dressing just now," she called. She sunk to the floor beside the door, much as she had the night before outside it. Had that been only last night? The conversation outside the door returned to her. Especially a certain part of that conversation. Christine has stared at her… astonished. Don't be foolish, Erik had said. Foolish. Indeed. She stood and carefully opened the door a crack, then a bit further and looking both ways, then she slipped out, grabbed the package and slipped back inside quickly.

Erik was leaning against the door to the bathroom. Somehow, despite the black mask, she could tell he was looking pale. "Oh, sit down and rest," she said, setting the package on the table. "Or have you something urgent planned for today?"

Why was she keeping him here, he wondered. He eased himself slowly into the chair she'd placed beside the bed last night. It was rather uncomfortable against his bones, which, he noted with consternation, seemed more pronounced than usual. Indeed, what had happened this past week? He felt rather sore, and it hurt to breathe deeply. His legs felt weak. And the pajamas clung to him. He looked at them again. These garments _were not his_. This was most absurd.

"How are you feeling?" she asked from across the room as she picked the package back up and sat on the edge of the bed fumbling to open it.

He looked at her. Was there a correct answer? "Rather tired, actually."

She stood and held her arms out to indicate the bed. "Let's trade then. The chair goes better with the table anyway." She walked over and put her hands upon the chair leaving him no real choice but to vacate it. He shied away from her and even as he did so, he wondered _why_ he did. She was tall for a woman, but not nearly as tall as he. And even in this state, he could surely overpower her if he wished to. Why did he feel so timid? But he was too tired to consider it for long. He eased himself onto the bed sorely and tugged at a blanket. _Just one_, he thought. Why were there _so many_? Who _sleeps_ like this?

He was asleep again in an instant. She opened the package and drew out a book and a pile of papers. The top one was a letter.

My Dearest Elizabeth,

May I still call you that? It is rather strange, having not seen you  
in so long. I do hope you are enjoying Paris, though I can't help  
but wonder about this 'interesting case' of which you wrote. In what  
regard is it of a personal interest and how did you come to be involved?  
I thought you were vacationing. As I recall, you said you needed a  
break from the madness, yet it seems you have sought out more of it,  
perhaps of another sort. You never were the type for rest and relaxation,  
were you my dear? Since you offered, here are two articles, which I  
would not dare publish without your proofreader's eyes perusing them  
first. And as you requested, here is your copy of Dr. Freud's book,  
though what you can possibly want with a copy of your own I cannot  
possibly imagine as I willingly share all my materials with you. I  
enclose also some information regarding another individual. Though  
not a patient of mine, I thought you might have some interest  
inlearning more about him due to your interests in, well, you shall  
understand when you see. He is in England at present, at the London  
Hospital. I know you have said you wish never to return to  
England and I would never ask that of you. Still, I would not withhold  
information from you that might be of interest. Frederick Treves is  
highly respected in his field and this is quite an interesting case, though  
out of my realm of study. I imagine you may wish to write to Dr. Treves  
yourself. But when shall I see you again, Elizabeth? I ask both  
professionally and personally. You know I enjoy your company. It is  
dreadfully dull here without you.

With all my love and affection,

Wilhelm

Elizabeth folded the letter, opened the book to the middle, tucked the letter inside, and glanced at Erik. When will you see me again, indeed, Wilhelm! she thought. There was first the matter of Erik and Christine. Christine was—well, Christine was expecting her, actually! She cursed under her breath and rushed to the bathroom to make herself presentable.

A short time later she emerged. A glance in the mirror told her this was not good enough, but it didn't matter for what she had to do. She sat at the table for a moment and scribbled a few words, tucked the letter into an envelope and sealed it. She stood at the door, undecided. She opened it, then closed it again without leaving. She crossed to the bed and tapped Erik on the shoulder. He was sleepy and cross. "I'm going downstairs," she told him. "I'll only be a moment."

She woke him _for that_? "Go!" he thundered. Or, tried to, but his voice broke and his chest ached. He waved her away disgustedly.

She went, but only as far as the lobby. She considered asking the staff for assistance then thought the better of it. She stepped outside, looked around, found a young boy in rather shabby clothing who appeared to be simply standing there. She offered him the letter and a few coins, told him the address, promised him more if he returned the same time tomorrow with proof that he had delivered it. She hurried back upstairs. Now what had she been doing when she remembered that? Ah, yes… Wilhelm wanted to know when would she return. It was first necessary to arrange some type of meeting between Erik and Christine. She glanced at Erik. That would still be some time away. In the meantime, what of this Dr. Treves? She had never heard of him. _Outside Wilhelm's realm of study_, she wondered. _Due to her interests in_… She would _understand when she saw_? She could not contain her curiosity.

But this case had nothing to do with psychoanalysis. This case was—Oh! And there was a photograph! Elizabeth cupped her hands over her nose and mouth as she stared at it her eyes wide and almost, but not quite, fearful. Then she carefully folded the documents, put the photograph between them and slipped it all back into the envelope which she folded down and carefully then placed inside the pocket of her valise. Yes, it was of interest to her for a variety of reasons. There was something she desperately needed to do, had planned to do for years, that she lacked the confidence to simply _do_. She had discussed it with no one, not even Wilhelm, for she feared that the men would not take it seriously. She had put the idea aside, but had never abandoned it. Erik had simultaneously inspired her and distracted her, but this solidified her resolve. She would have to return to Germany to make it happen, so it would have to wait until the matter of Erik and Christine reached a conclusion. She looked at Erik's sleeping form. As soon as he was well, she thought.

It was not long before Erik was awake and complaining of hunger. Elizabeth pretended to be annoyed but was secretly delighted he had any appetite at all. She saw the way he looked at her as he dragged himself to the table and she knew he would not remove the mask in front of her. She grabbed a nightgown and headed for the bathroom. "My turn to sleep," she said lightly. "I was up late last night you know. She entered the bathroom and returned quickly. "I'm sure I'll be asleep a while. Your clothes are in the closet if you wish to freshen up." He glanced at her, down at himself, and up at her again. "Well, they're yours now anyway. You may not recognize them, though. What you had at the house on the lake didn't seem so comfortable for being sick in bed." She climbed into the bed and turned away from him so he could eat. She pulled the sheet over her head to be doubly sure. "There's another set of pajamas in there, too," her voice said from beneath the sheets. "At the very least, you should let me have that set laundered. You've been in them a week you know." And with that, she drifted off.

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Okay... so what are you thinking NOW? I didn't alienate anyone, did I? Reviews please? You know how I love the reviews, right?


	38. Chapter 38: Estranged

**Disclaimer:** Okay. No joke. Now _this_ story owns me, not the other way around. Phantom of the Opera is only the inspiration. (Neither of us can lay claim to it.)

**My Note to all of you:** To those who have been pretty faithfully reviewing, I just have to say that you all are tremendous. It's been obvious all along that a group of regular reviews were all highly educated mature folks, and I just want to say that I LOVE reading your messages--ESPECIALLY the ones with corrections, suggestions, typo alerts and plot or character inconsistencies in them. Seriously. If I get something wrong, tell me FAST (Thanks Dernhelm for that last bit about the hospital. That was utterly critical. I knew I should have left it the old way... but I was afraid the change had been shortly after it was established rather than recently. Can you believe I could not find the date? Then again, it was midnight. I didn't look that hard. But it's fixed already. Couldn't leave a glaring error like that for more than a day! But honestly. Jump all over my grammar and typos, too. I was just re-reading a couple of early chapters (which I thought I had already CORRECTED!) and I found more typos. I know, I could get a beta, but it slows the process down (and no one wants THAT, right?) so you can put it in the review or PM me and I SWEAR to you I will go back and fix it. I used to teach English. I can't have grammar mistakes here! The sooner I know, the easier it is to fix--while the chapters are still saved on FFN as "documents." Okay, y'all... there's not a lot of action here, but plenty going on anyway. Let me know what you think so far...

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When she awakened and removed the covers from her head, everything was (more or less) as she had hoped. Erik had changed into the other pajamas (funny he was being so compliant even while acting so incredibly irritated) and the tray remained but the food was gone, suggesting someone (other than herself) had eaten it. Sadly, the mask was neatly in place. She hoped he'd spent some time without it while she was sleeping though. It looked so dreadfully uncomfortable. She remembered something he told her in the house on the lake. _I wore it... though it was terribly uncomfortable... it impaired my vision... it hurt my face._ How could he bear it? She wanted to tell him _It is not needed_, but she didn't dare broach the subject with him now. She glanced at him.

He was reading her book.

She folded back the sheets and sat up. "You read German?" she asked.

He looked at her. She could almost feel him thinking up sarcastic remarks. No, I'm just looking at the pictures. German? Is that what this is? No wonder it makes no sense! I thought it was Hindi! But he said nothing of the sort. "Indeed," he replied icily. As if she should have known all along.

All this time she had been struggling with her French when they could have been conversing in German all along! She sighed heavily. But it wouldn't do to change it now. She'd become accustomed to speaking French to him. Indeed, to everyone, but especially to him. She tried to imagine any of their conversations in German and they sounded awkward. It would be prudent to remember this, though. At some point she might need to tell him something that was not to be understood by others. The Comte, perhaps. Or even Christine. Idly she wondered who else among her understood German.

"Surely you read this only for amusement and take none of it seriously," he said. His voice was still harsh and raspy, but better nonetheless. But did she detect a note of derision?

"I'm sorry?"

"It is quite ridiculous, don't you agree?"

Well, she hadn't yet had the chance to begin reading it. And now, it rather looked like she wouldn't. The book was open on his lap, but his countenance was one of holding it protectively. "What is?"

"This nonsense about mothers and sons. It can't be true. It's a wonder anyone reads such drivel at all." She was taken aback. Was that a _personal_ affront to her?

A true analyst might have turned the focus back upon him with "You seem to have strong feelings about that…" but Elizabeth glared at him. "I guess I wouldn't know much about mothers and sons," she said coldly.

"Nor I," he responded in a softer tone, and she felt her anger ebb away again. Still, he seemed determined to provoke her. "But this Doctor Freud seems to be rather out of his own mind I believe. Hard to imagine he helps anyone." He coughed lightly.

She laughed. "_Never_ say that aloud where anyone can hear you," she replied.

"It is a rather remarkable piece of work," he said. "If you regard it as fiction." Was he irritated with Freud? Or with _her_?

"Erik?"

He glared at her over the top of the book as though she were repeatedly interrupting him. Why was he talking to her if he didn't want her to answer, she wondered.

"I thought, perhaps, if you're feeling well enough to sit up and read perhaps we might instead sit up and discuss the situation with Christine?"

He regarded her distantly. "It is late afternoon and you are still in bed. Are _you_ feeling well enough to discuss Christine?"

He was deliberately putting her off, pushing her away. Fine. Wilhelm always said women didn't make good analysts because they were too willing to get close. If distance was required for analysis, so be it. That made this the best time for discussing Christine, for she had not felt more distance from him since the moment she met him—not when he was merely a skeletal figure she thought left for dead. Not when he dragged her by her hair to thrust her face into the light of the lantern, nor when he thrust his face into hers with a horrific look to deliberately disgust her. Not even the night he shut her out of his room and his life and locked the door to creep out to stand beneath the window of one who was disgusted by him while she placed trays of food by his door.

She glared at him, stalked to the closet for a dress, rummaged in a drawer for her undergarments and stomped into the bathroom. Really, he was behaving quite childishly. Actually, they both were, she amended. No more stomping. Her pain was her own fault. She hadn't been up front with him about her feelings. True, she hadn't been entirely aware of them until recently, but nevertheless. That's life. She remembered a promise she'd made herself long ago that she had almost broken. If she wouldn't break it for Wilhelm, who had done so much for her, why break it for this shattered excuse for a man? That's _it_, she told herself. It _stops_ here.

Even as she thought this, she realized she was dressing because he had suggested it was necessary, and she was angry with herself for it. She looked at herself in the mirror and scarcely recognized herself. Where had all those lines come from? When did she come to look so tired? She remembered looking at her reflection the night before and shuddered. She remembered the terrible heaving of her stomach just before that and the bitter acid taste mingling with the salt from her tears. She splashed her face with cool water. _It isn't worth your tears._ She dabbed a towel against her face. _It is almost over now._ She tucked up the wisps of her hair that had escaped while she was sleeping. _Finish this and move on._ She rearranged her features into a blank analyst's mask. _There now. Perfect._ She exited the bathroom.

He looked up from the book, marking his place with a bony finger, as she entered. My, he read fast, she thought. She found a mesh bag in the closet beside the bed and gathered up the clothing that she had piled up the night before prior to having realized he was gone. She added the soiled pajamas to the pile and placed it all outside the door for the hotel staff. She didn't care if anyone noticed men's garments in the bag. Scrutinize my laundry and be damned, she thought savagely. She did the same with the soiled linens, then turned back to the room.

He gazed across the room at her. She looked so tired, he thought. This, regardless of everything else, was his fault. It was not his fault she met him, not his fault she felt it necessary to bother about him the first time. But he had come here. He remembered that. He had bound her to a promise, which she had kept... and still he could not trust her. What was wrong with him? Why was it so easy to be cruel today? Ah, yes, she looked tired. She was rather lovely when she wasn't tired; he didn't deserve to have anything to do with her. He'd be going. Just as soon as he could walk further than the end of the hall without stopping for breath.

She felt his stare and looked up. His eyes looked so cold and heartless. How could someone so full of passion and love act so unfeeling and cruel? And yet it made sense. Strong emotions went in both directions. And what did one expect to be the result of a life lived without affection. But she had not done this to him. She would not bear the brunt of his anger at the world. She knew she didn't deserve that. Still, she was a woman who kept her word; she never made promises unless she could keep them and never broke them once they were made. _It is almost fulfilled_.

"Erik," she said. "It's about that promise I made you. I could easily say that Christine is fine, my promise is kept, my obligation complete. But I would be remiss if I did so because leaving things as they are now leaves it apt to happen again."

He regarded her without expression. Even his eyes revealed nothing. It was as though he were wearing a mask beneath his mask. He did not speak but waited for her to say more. She was going to have to give more. It simply wasn't right. But she did it anyway.

"When we went out that night, I don't think you intended to see Christine. Maybe I am wrong. I know _I_ didn't intend to see her. I didn't make my intentions clear to you, and perhaps that was dishonest of me. Perhaps I simply didn't think it was important to discuss it. Whatever the case, I'll tell you now. We met by accident, Erik. That wasn't intended either. I was on vacation. I was bored. I wanted an adventure and I went exploring. Meeting you was entirely unexpected—but wonderful. I mean that. I don't regret that for a moment. I hope you don't either, though maybe I wouldn't blame you if you did; it's not been easy for you, has it? But what I _thought_ was that you seemed much less melancholic on the way to the carriage ride than you were the day I met you. Or any of the other days, as a matter of fact. Something went wrong along the way and I don't know why, but before that, as we were climbing up from the cellars, you seemed almost…happy."

He didn't deny it. He thought back on that night. Yes, she was perhaps correct. He _had_ rather enjoyed it, for a moment. Enjoyed it and instantly felt guilty for it. Or felt afraid it would be snatched away without warning. Whatever. He had enjoyed it for a brief moment before the ugliness crept back in.

"My intention that night was that perhaps you would enjoy yourself. I thought perhaps if you did, we might try it again—or something else. Perhaps over time, we would enjoy ourselves so much that you would wish to journey above more often. You spoke before that of being tired of your way of life, of wanting something different, though you weren't sure exactly what. Isn't it so? I thought perhaps such a thing were actually possible. I got the feeling you once believed so, too and—"

"Many people have once believed foolish things. What I may have once believed, years ago, means nothing."

"Understood. I won't argue with you. But at the time of the carriage ride, this is what was on my mind. My intentions were to take a small step towards making that possible. I was thinking this and I did not tell you. Naturally, I have no way of knowing what you were thinking. You did not tell me. It is possible that you absolutely intended to see Christine that night. But I doubt it. Because if you had intended it, you would likely not have acted so intensely disturbed immediately following."

He glared at her. "Of what relevance is it that?"

"The relevance is that it upset you greatly. Whether you admit it or not, it did. And things left as they are, it could happen again. You could easily encounter her again."

"Not if I do not come up here anymore," he said angrily.

"So you'll hide yourself away then? She goes free, and you lock yourself away in fear?"

"I would be locked away even if she _did not exist_. She set me free for but a moment. I should be grateful to remember that moment for the rest of my life, even if locked away."

Oh, how to remain detached in the face of such bitterness, such hopelessness, such torture! But she would not open herself to pain again.

"If that's what you choose to do with what's left of your life, so be it. If you choose to live without hope, I can't force it on you. But imagine if you change your mind! Oh, unrealistic, perhaps, but humor me! Let's imagine you change your mind, you wish for more, you decide to make it a reality and you come above—successfully. Nothing is ever perfect, but lets say things are good. Then you run into her. Her reaction is not what you would hope. It shatters all your dreams. You go below again, but this time, it is not a choice. This time, it is a life sentence. Think on it. It is a tragedy and it can be so simply avoided! If things were left better between you, if everything were out in the open, if the two of you could agree on some certain terms, then yes—do as you wish. Go back to where you were and stay there. But someday, when you change your mind, you will be entirely free again."

His voice was skeptical. "How do you intend to accomplish this bit of magic?"

"You two need to get together and talk."

He visibly tensed. "No."

She felt herself weakening. "I'd stay. I'd be right there with you."

He must have been weakening too, for his shoulders slumped forward dejectedly. "What can I possibly say to her?"

Without meaning to, she shifted to a gentler voice. "We'll come up with something," she said. Damn. She said _we._ She cursed herself silently and went on. "Don't worry for a moment about what to say. Just say you'll try it."

"I—" he struggled. "She would come to see me then? She would…sit here? And listen? If I talked to her?"

"I haven't suggested this to her yet. I wanted your approval first. But I feel very certain she would. She wanted to come inside and visit last evening."

"Last evening!" he said in a whisper. "What could I have said to her then?"

"That's why I sent her away."

"You sent her away?" His voice was barely audible. Then there was a silence. A long silence. Finally: "She only learned I was here last night. She wanted to come in then. It was a sudden decision. She did not think it through. She will not want to see me when she comes to her senses."

Elizabeth cast her eyes downward. It might be true. All she could do was ask Christine. But regardless of whether it was true or not, it pained her to hear him say it, for she knew it reflected upon his perception of himself, and she knew that in the brief time she had known him, her impact had been insignificant. It seemed so simple to her. Surely, there was a way to live a normal life—or something closer to it. Regardless of whatever had happened before, he had yearned for normalcy and apparently tried to bring it about in whatever way he thought possible—up to the point of begging Christine to marry him. Her rejection was the final blow, it appeared, that convinced him effort was entirely futile.

"Erik... What shall I tell her?"

"About what?"

"About… you? She asks me questions. Shall I tell her the truth? Refuse to answer? Tell her to ask you herself?"

He stared at her, still confused. "About… _what_?"

"She wants to know things that sound simple like how I met you and what you've been doing. Of course, there are certain things I wouldn't tell her anyway." She cast her eyes away. _Like your condition when I first saw you_. "Things that aren't necessary. That wouldn't benefit either of you any." _…because __it would make me feel like I am disgracing you_. It still mattered to her. She couldn't shake it.

He met her eyes. He seemed to have steeled himself against all emotion. "I don't care what you tell her," he said.

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:gazing at you plaintively while holding a sign that reads "Will write chapters for reviews":


	39. Chapter 39: Foundation

**Disclaimer:** As I mentioned two chapters back, Phantom owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note:** Many of you have commented on my frequent updates, and I am touched that you noticed. I have managed to schedule my writing into my day to keep up this pace, but I wanted to warn everyone in advance that on Friday night a new foster child is moving into my home and on Saturday I have to work, which is unusual. I expect I will need to spend quite a bit of time in the evenings acclimating the new child to the home, although she's a teenager, so it's not like I have to bathe her and such, but time will need to be spent, nevertheless. If I can get ahead before she moves in, I'll try to post what I have in suitable sized chapters over the days I don't get to write, but if it happens that I don't post for a few days, please understand and know that I will be back soon. I try to always finish what I start, so this will NOT be one of those stories that gets long and involved and then suddenly stops. I promise. (Yes... I have that same hangup about promises that Elizabeth does. So you know you can trust me on this one...)

**A quick second note:** To those of you who have repeatedly asked to see less of Christine, please accept my sincerest apologies. It simply can't be helped. A promise to Erik is a promise to Erik. Would you dare break one?

* * *

"What happened yesterday?" Christine asked immediately as soon as the door was closed.

"Nothing happened. I was up late the night I took you home. I needed some rest. I needed some time. It's nothing to worry about."

"But there is plenty to worry about, isn't there?" Christine was wearing blue today which brought out her eyes more than ever. Her hair was loose but neat. She face shone healthily, no longer sickly pale. Elizabeth wondered how Erik would react when he gazed upon her. Perhaps a meeting would not work after all—and yet, there was no other way. They could not leave it as it was unless Christine intended to move far away, which was rather unreasonable.

"Perhaps."

"Raoul was terribly upset," Christine said.

"Was he? That I didn't come yesterday? I _sent_ word..."

"Yes. But you sent it to me," she replied.

"Ah." There was no need for discussion where men were involved. Elizabeth understood completely and regretted her letter. She had even told Christine "I will send word to the Comte" but then she had thought over the girl's feelings about the men in her life, how the exercised control over her, the fact that the girl was not yet married to the Comte and had no father, therefore no man was actually responsible for her, and she sent the message to the girl--or rather the young lady, herself. But the Comte misread her intentions--or perhaps he had read them exactly correctly--and was not pleased.

"I must speak with him on the way out anyway. I'll apologize to him when I see him. It can be easily explained. But first I want to talk to you about what you said the other night. About your request. To come inside. It wasn't the right time. But soon, it might be. I'd like to discuss how you'd feel about arranging a meeting."

Christine looked stunned. "With Erik?"

"Of course. When he's… _well_, of course."

Christine looked hesitant. "Well…" she began. I don' t know how long you've known him… if you've ever seen him angry. I mean, if you found him like he was the other night, I can imagine you don't have any idea…"

"No, Christine. I didn't find him like that."

There was a flicker of curiosity in the azure eyes, and suddenly the topic changed. "How did you find him?"

"That's hardly important, Christine."

"It is to me," she said simply.

"Why?"

Christine thought. Elizabeth had the sudden impression that she was trying to think up the reason that would give her the result for which she wished, but when she finally did answer, she sounded entirely sincere.

"It matters to me whether you met by accident or whether he sought you out because of me. If the latter were true—it would be amazing if it were because Erik never asks anyone for help, nor admits any weakness nor—well, anyway it would be amazing, but it would also be upsetting because it would mean that when he set me free he did not mean it, or that he changed his mind, and came after me."

Elizabeth sought to quell that fear without revealing much else. "He sought me out because of you only _after_ he had already happened upon you by accident."

"And how did he find you?"

"Well, I had told him where he could find me."

"Then you knew him before that?"

"Of course. As you say, he's not much inclined to ask for assistance at all. Asking a complete stranger is beyond unlikely."

"I thought asking _anyone_ was beyond unlikely. He must find you quite extraordinary."

"On the contrary. It is you he finds extraordinary. He made that quite clear when we spoke. He begged me, not for his own sake, but for yours."

"Begged?" said Christine, and she was utterly stunned. "He begged? Erik? Begged?" And yet even as she said it the image of him on his knees before her, the hem of her dressed clutched in his hand as he lifted it to his lips rose in her memory. When she shut her eyes to block it out, it was all the more vivid.

"Christine, we are far from the topic at hand. Are you willing to meet with Erik or not?"

She stared at the older woman, an expression of absolute innocence upon her face. "Why, that depends," she said.

"Depends? On what?"

"On the answers to these questions," she replied sweetly, and Elizabeth was trapped. Oh, the girl was clever. She was good at pretending to be a fool when it got her that for which she wished, especially from the men around her, but she was far more clever than the men would ever perceive.

"It seems to me that you're trying to determine something quite specific. You asked if I'd ever seen him when he is angry. In response, I believe I have. But your question tells me you are fearful. Of Erik. When he is angry."

"Naturally! Do you know anyone who wouldn't be?"

"We will take precautions. You will not be in any danger. If I thought you would be, I would not even suggest it."

"No one can control Erik." Christine said ominously. "Not even Erik himself."

"Oh, Christine. Give him a little more credit than that."

"Why should I? He willingly admits it! I think he's even rather _proud_ of it!"

"Christine." Elizabeth felt like she needed to say her name every few moments just to keep her on track. It was unnerving. "We're working on that. I sincerely doubt there will be any angry outbursts any time soon. He's rather subdued at the moment."

Christine's eyes clouded over. Her expression went from anxious to worried in an instant. "He's no better then?"

"Tell me how that makes you feel."

"Well, it doesn't make me feel any particular way at all. Except perhaps worried, I suppose."

"Worried about what?"

The girl stared back.

"Worried that he will die? Why? Because you will miss him? Because you will feel guilty? Simply because he is a human being? Why?"

"Why, don't you care about him at all? You—you looked so sincere that night! And now you don't even care if he lives or dies?"

"I'm not talking about my feelings—"

"Well I _am_!"

"We're not here to discuss _my_ feelings, Christine,"

"And why not? Because you promised him you'd talk about mine? He's awfully good at exacting promises, isn't he? But is anyone any good at keeping them? You'd think he'd have learned by now not to expect anyone to." She folded her arms. Closed to the world.

Silence. There really was nothing Elizabeth could say to this. They weren't here to talk about Erik's feelings, either—not yet anyway—but Christine simply refused to examine her own.

"What do you want to do, make it happen all over again?" Christine burst out. "Otherwise, make up your mind. That's the problem, you know! I couldn't make up my mind, and look what happened because of it! It was Oh, Erik—no, I didn't know his name yet at the time, so I suppose Oh, Angel, yes, I'll do whatever you say because you're so good to me and how I enjoy our time together—I had not seen him yet, you understand. And then Raoul showed up and I wanted to spend time with him, too, you see? Erik must have had it carefully planned out. I'm sure he did. But Raoul showed up unexpectedly and he had to show himself to me earlier than he had planned. It failed miserably. I could not hide my horror. But then I told him otherwise and he hoped... and then I saw Raoul again and he found out. But then I felt such pity for him, but then he saw my tears. Back and forth again and again until we all lost our minds, I think. Take care you don't make it happen all over again. One night, oh, poor unhappy Erik is ill, and a few days later why should we care if he dies? He only tried to destroy two thousand lives at the Opera last time. I shudder to think whose lives might be at stake if it happened _again_."

"Nothing of the sort is happening again. I asked you why would you be worried if he is no better? I didn't say I wasn't. If you must know, it would upset me tremendously. But I am not afraid of him, and I am not the one he went to see every night secretly."

"No... you're the one he's—" she broke off, unable to even speculate what the strange relationship might be, let alone attempt to define it.

Elizabeth met Christine's eyes. "Erik is my friend, Christine. And I am his. That is all."

Christine laughed in disbelief. "Erik doesn't have _friends_—" she began.

"All the more reason why he needs one" Elizabeth interjected quickly as Christine went on.

"—Erik _owns_ people. Body and soul. He _owns_ them. Or he destroys them trying to."

"Maybe," Elizabeth could feel how naïve it sounded as she said it "that will change some day."

Christine made a noise that sounded like a laugh.

"How old is he, do you know?" Elizabeth tried again.

Christine threw her hands in the air hopelessly. "I don't think anyone knows that," she said. "I'd guess nearly fifty. It's not—" she lowered her voice as if afraid of being heard "—like you can tell by looking."

"All right. And how many people have been really truly kind to him?"

Christine's expression changed as she considered. "Maybe… three. It depends on how you count it."

"How do _you_ count it?"

"Well, I tried to be. I really tried. That's one. Raoul says the Persian was supposed to hunt him down and turn him in because was sentenced to death in his country, but he found a way to let him go. I guess that's two. And then… Madam Giry. But I don't know if she really counts. I think she really believed he was a ghost all along. I mean, she didn't know. She never saw him. But she always did what he said. I'd say it was more… respect… than actual kindness. But she was never _un_kind. Oh, yes. Now there's you. Does that count? Does that make four?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "That's up to you. But all right. That's fair. Let's say four. And how many _real friends_ has he had?"

"What do you mean by real friends?"

"Just that. Friends. Like anyone has. People who care for you. People with whom you… share things. People who talk to you, help you, miss you when you're gone… Friends, Christine. Surely you understand the word."

Christine was silent. She understood the word.

"You can count family members, too, as long as they are loving ones who treated him right."

It was just that… maybe there weren't any. "I don't know," she whispered guiltily. "Maybe you, but I can't tell. I don't know you yet. I don't know how well he knew the Persian… if it was friendship or just… mercy. I don't know. I don't think there are any."

Elizabeth let it sink in for a moment. If she hadn't convinced Christine, she had, at least, completely convinced herself. Any anger she had had that morning and the day before towards Erik was entirely gone. At last, she repeated Christine's words back. "You don't think there are _any_. And you say he owns people. Destroys people. Where would he learn otherwise? _Why_ would he learn otherwise?"

Christine wasn't crying, but she looked terribly unhappy. She shook her head from side to side furiously.

"Then consider this again. Maybe someday it will change. I think it would be fair to give him perhaps _one_ chance, anyway. A _fair_ chance. That's more than just telling him you expect a change and waiting to see it happen. He wouldn't know where to begin."

Christine was nodding. "That's true," she said. He was brilliant, emotionally—and socially because of it—he was utterly hopeless.

"Will you meet with him? When it's time?"

She hesitated. "I don't know."

"With me."

"Maybe."

"What could change maybe into yes?"

"How do you know for certain he happened upon me by accident? Did he tell you that? Are you sure it is true? Erik has been known to lie. There are those who say he also steals. And murders. How is it you believe everything he says so easily?"

Elizabeth's eyes clouded over as she thought this through. Had she ever had any reason to doubt him? Had he ever lied to her? Well, there was no way to verify his stories. It could have been utter nonsense. Truth be told, however, once she discovered a house five levels beneath the ground on an underground lake beneath the Opera, the world had turned upside down and Elizabeth found herself believing just about anything. But how could she convince Christine that Erik had not been pursuing her since he had released her?

"Christine, it was a terrible accident that he just happened upon you that evening—" she began, but was cut off.

"A terrible accident!" Christine repeated, looking more, rather than less, worried.

"Christine, you look frightened."

"That's what they told us the night they found Joseph Buquet hanged in the cellars! And the night the chandelier fell in the middle of the performance and injured so many and even killed a woman. That was a terrible accident, too! And the death of Comte Philippe! Another accident! Now an accident involving me? I should be very frightened indeed!"

"All right. That's quite enough. It was a poor choice of words on my part, and I apologize. Let me try again. Erik encountered you entirely unintentionally that evening. I can assure you it upset him at least as much at is upset you. Perhaps far more."

Ah, that had done it. Whether it was true sympathy or merely pity that was what convinced her. "Did it?" She looked utterly distressed as she said. "What happened?"

"Perhaps I should let him tell you himself."

* * *

**The obligatory supplication for reviews:** Please, please, please. I can live without food, water, even without air for a brief period of time, but I'm not sure I could possibly survive without your feedback.


	40. Chapter 40: Freud

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Freud, either. (Though wouldn't life be interesting if I did?)

**Author's Note:** For those of you who have begged for more Erik, and for those of you who have expressed an interest in Freud. Enjoy.

**Author's Note #2:** Wow. We're down to 4.5 percent on reviews. Since y'all are all so wonderful, I know I shouldn't take it hard, but it does make me think "They noticed that last chapter was not particularly poignant and are reacting to that..." It occurred to me that perhaps you were punishing me for doing another Christine chapter after you asked me not to, but I know that none of you are that shallow... so it must be just that I'm slipping a bit. I admit it. Nothing really happened last chapter and it wasn't all that interesting. My apologies. I hope that maybe this one makes up for it a little bit, though I must admit there's not going to be a cliff-hanger ending or anything... Oh yeah... I'm posting EARLY tonight (6:30 p.m. instead of after 11 p.m.) because I'm off to go clean house. On one hand, I'd like to say expect nothing tomorrow night. On the other hand, the children do not stay up late, and I might get another chance to write late tonight... so just check back like you always do. I'm pretty well committed to WRITING about 2000 words a day. Whether I have time to edit and polish... well... that's another story. Whew! long note. Okay... without further delay...

Recall: When we left off, Elizabeth at Christine's attempting to set up a future E/C meeting.

* * *

Meanwhile...

As Elizabeth departed for Christine's, Erik latched the door behind her. She had locked it at the knob behind her, but one couldn't be certain that staff would not enter. He considered pushing a heavy piece of furniture in front of the door, but doubted he possessed the strength at present to do so. Still with the latch in place, he would have warning if anyone tried to force the door. He peeled the mask from his face, looked at its inside in disgust and laid it aside. He put his head in his hands and massaged his face. Why did _that_ ache too? He'd leave the mask off for a short while, anyway, until he feared it was nearly time for her to return.

He had to get out of this place to somewhere private—back to the Opera, preferably—but it wasn't time yet. He still felt dizzy when he stood, still felt suddenly cold when the temperature of the room should not have changed, could still hear and feel a rattle in his chest when he inhaled deeply. He coughed. Not good at all. He took advantage of his relative privacy to double over and let the coughing overtake him. He spat the vile substance that emerged into a handkerchief. No, _that_ wasn't even worth washing. He tossed it into the wastebasket and worked his tongue over the insides of his teeth trying to rid his mouth of the dreadful taste. What was the point, though? There would likely be more of it to come.

He'd not had to endure anything like this before that he could recall and he wondered idly whether it was some punishment for his more recent sins or merely the natural result of spending too much time above. Either way, life in the cellar of the Opera, entirely shut away from all society, would avoid its happening again, regardless of what Elizabeth thought. Of course, there would also be the matter of the necessity of supplies, unless he were planning to die again and he wasn't. It wasn't that he didn't have good reason to. He could not conceive of a solitary reason to continue, and yet _he would_. He'd figure out that out later. Maybe he would need to find another place to live, he thought sadly. He would terribly miss knowing that his architectural masterpiece lay just above him every moment, but he may have no choice.

Feeling the need to cough again, he glanced around for another handkerchief and his eyes fell instead upon the table where breakfast was waiting. He felt something move within him. _She_ had left it there for _him_, even after he had been less than kind. He vaguely recalled having eaten during the time he was in the bed, scarcely able to get up. How had she managed all the food? Who knew he was here? Why was she doing this? He felt a twinge of something like guilt for the way he had talked to her the day before, the way he had remained out of reach, the way he had slept on the floor again. But what else could he do? It wouldn't do to be close to her. It wasn't acceptable to get _attached_ to her. And she was making it dreadfully difficult not to.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, looked at the tray of fruit and rolls and felt ashamed to eat it and at the same time, ashamed not to eat it. He truly didn't deserve it, yet if he left it untouched it would, for some reason, upset her. He eyed it suspiciously at length, coughed up more vile matter, then devoured everything rapidly and moved the tray to the floor. He could not risk opening the door to place it outside. As far as anyone here knew, he did not exist, so he would have to allow her to take care of it. It was humiliating, though, to have to depend on a woman so entirely for everything, and he longed to leave. Still, for now he was trapped in a very small room on the third floor, about halfway down the corridor and he was feeling quite claustrophobic. And bored.

It was dreadfully dull to be awake and (marginally) well in the hotel room. He almost missed being delirious. Almost. Except for the hallucinations. But being coherent was not pleasant either. He was finding it rather difficult to sit still, so he reached for only book he'd seen in the tiny room. Freud. Again. He found the place where he left off the day before.

_The child was not at all precocious in his intellectual development. At the age of one and a half, he could say only a few comprehensible words; he could also make use of a number of sounds which expressed a meaning intelligible to those around him. He was, however, on good terms with his parents and their one servant-girl, and tributes were paid to his being a 'good boy'._

Then why on earth was he being studied? Erik criticized.

_He did not disturb his parents at night, he conscientiously obeyed orders not to touch certain things or to go into certain rooms, and above all he never cried when his mother left him for a few hours. At the same time, he was greatly attached to his mother, who had not only fed him herself but also had looked after him without any outside help._

Mothers and sons, over and over again, Erik noted. Thus far, anyway, this section seemed less deviant than the one before it, but nevertheless, it focused on a mother and her son. Never a mother and daughter? he wondered. Never a father and a son? Surely this man had a problem with his own mother. Why else would he think only on that?

_This good little boy, however, had an occasional disturbing habit of taking any small objects he could get hold of and throwing them away from him into a corner, under the bed, and so on, so that hunting for his toys and picking hem up was often quite a business. As he did this he gave vent to a loud, long-drawn-out "o-o-o-o', accompanied by an expression of interest and satisfaction. The mother and I were agreed in thinking that this was not a mere interjection but a representation of the word "fort" (gone)... the interpretation of the game then became obvious._

Quite obvious. Which is why we need a book about it. Imbecile.

_It was related to the child's great cultural achievement—the instinctual renunciation which he had made in allowing his mother to go away without protesting_.

Erik turned the page back. No, he had not misread. The child was one and a half. He had not 'allowed' anything. Children are allowed. They don't do the allowing. Not even in their own minds. And how this, regardless of age, was a "cultural achievement" was beyond speculation. It was absurd.

_He compensated himself for this, as it were, by himself staging the disappearance and return of objects within his reach. The child cannot possibly have felt his mother's departure as something agreeable to even indifferent._

Why not? Perhaps there was more to the situation. Perhaps she was mean to him and he experienced relief when she left. But the arrogant doctor was _so certain_ that he could not possibly have felt her departure to be agreeable. Why? Because he was "greatly attached to" her? Or for some instinctive reason simply because she was "the mother?" How strange that seemed. Even the very worst of mothers are somehow longed for, sought after, missed, needed... loved? For a moment he dared to consider his own mother, and he remembered the dream he'd had two nights earlier. _My mother passed by with a look of revulsion upon her face..._ he'd told Elizabeth, _and I held my arms out to her. _But he hadn't told Elizabeth how it hurt, even after all the years. He hadn't bothered to say that he'd felt like he was a child again, experiencing rejection for the first time, without the protective calluses that developed with time and abuse.

_She ran from me..._ She _had_ run in the dream but it was as though she were running underwater, for her motions were slowed tremendously and magnified so that he could see every detail of her face as she grimaced in distaste then turned her head away hurriedly and hastened away, glancing behind her once to be certain that he was not following. It replayed before him now. She approached from the west--he could tell it was west by the waning light of the sun, for, despite all the falling in the dream, he always seem to be on the surface of the earth in an area where there were no buildings. She walking straight and tall. She was even smiling a little. Then her eyes glanced down—yes, down, though he was surely taller now than she had ever been in life, so he must have been the size of a child!—and in an instant any trace of joy was wiped away. Her eyes moved downward and met his but only for an instant, and they flicked away again. He remembered those eyes. They were dark in emotion but bright in color, a strange shade lighter than brown but not quite yellow. Not surprisingly, they were not entirely unlike his own, though the rest of her face was pale, plain, and _normal_. She turned her head away, lifted herself gracefully on her toes and bounded—once, twice, and on the third step, on her left foot, she hesitated and glanced back hastily over her right shoulder. A wisp of loose hair fanned out about her as she swung her head around, determined his position, reassured herself that he was not following her with outstretched arms. And he looked closely at her face. Was that his mother? It _had been_ only a moment ago, but now it looked more like Elizabeth.

_And I wrapped my arms about myself... _Why had he done that? It was only a dream, yes, but why nevertheless? It was terribly cold. He had done it to contain what little warmth his body had. Only, he had been cold before his mother appeared and had not attempted to compensate this way. With a start he realized he was repeating this behavior even as he sat at the table reading, and he tore his hands away from his arms swiftly and with embarrassment. Had he been trying to imagine her embrace? _...but it was not enough._ He sighed with profound loneliness and turned his eyes back to the book.

_How then does his repetition of this distressing experience as a game fit in with the pleasure principle? It may perhaps be said in reply that her departure had to be enacted as a necessary preliminary to her joyful return, and that it was in the latter that lay the true purpose of the game. But against this must be counted the observed fact that the first act, that of departure, was staged as a game in itself and fare more frequently than the episode in its entirety, with its pleasurable ending._

So?

_At the outset, he was in a passive situation—he was overpowered by the experience; but, by repeating it, unpleasurable though it was, as a game, he took on an active part... Throwing away the object so that it was gone might satisfy an impulse of the child's which was suppressed in his actual life, to revenge himself on his mother for going away from him._

Perhaps. But revenge upon his mother, acted out against a toy. Ridiculous. Why not against _her_? Because he could not exact revenge upon his mother at such an age and size. Because he was so small, so ineffective. He had power over nothing—save his toys. And that over which had had power, he acted upon. Erik couldn't even remember having toys, let alone what he'd done with them. He looked up from the book and frowned. What _had_ he done as a child? Surely he had _played_. Even if the other children had rejected him—and they had—he still would have played _alone_. _Wouldn't _he? He couldn't remember. Had he not a single plaything? It worried him. Both the fact that he could not remember and the possibility that he had never had a single item with which to amuse himself. He turned back to the pages of the book to distract himself from this line of thought, quite forgetting that the book was what had initiated it.

_In that case, it would have a defiant meaning: 'All right then, go away! I don't need you. I'm sending you away myself.'_

A child takes acts out his revenge upon his toys. Upon what does an adult act out his? The answer remains the same—that which he can control: the objects around him. Or his environment. Or people. People. Especially those weak-willed easily-controlled people.

It didn't take any real intellect to conclude that a child's relationship with its mother could have far reaching consequences, but the idea that a child might throw toys away—and that an adult might translate this into throwing people away—to get back at a mother for leaving was, while completely illogical, nevertheless fascinating. He still thought the author was an imbecile—thought so even more so now, actually, because he was angry that someone who had never met him might know something about his own mind that he had not yet considered—but as he ridiculed the author repeatedly in his conscious mind, another part of him contemplated. Christine had been entirely under his control—until that boy interfered. But he had gotten her back. It hadn't been easy, but he had put her in a position where he was entirely in control. She was powerless. He had won his heart's desire. He possessed Christine. And then he feared the worst—that finally possessing Christine would not bring him real joy—so he threw her away. Oh, it was more complicated than that, yes, but she had agreed to stay, and he had sent her away.

Far more disturbing still was Elizabeth. Dark haired Elizabeth, and he had always had an affinity for long black tresses, until he met Christine. Why? Dark haired Elizabeth, who was harder to control and yet somehow easier to retain. Dark haired Elizabeth who seemed near to him in age... but more disturbing, who seemed near to the age of his mother during his most poignant childhood memories. He had told her to leave, had said he always knew she would leave, but she had not gone. He had insulted her in the house on the lake, threatened her in the carriage, and accused her in the hotel room, but she remained, and without the assuming the appearance of a dog that had been beaten. How much more would it take to send her away? And was that, perhaps, what he was trying to determine? Or trying to do?

Elizabeth, who could walk through fire. It was only a dream, of course, but he had almost believed it. The things she was willing to endure, perhaps she _would_ walk through fire. And it occurred to him that it would make a most entertaining side show act and suddenly the sick thought of performing together blindsided him and he shook his head hard to drive it out.

Elizabeth walked through fire only in drug-induced dreams and when she did she was angry with those who dared not to breathe. He'd held out his arms to her--why? And she struck him. Unless it wasn't her at all. Maybe it was his mother all along.

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Please consider this chapter my sincerest apologies for the one that came before it.

:Holding out a small tin cup and crying plaintively: "Reviews?"


	41. Chapter 41: Raoul

**Standard Disclaimer**: Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Today was one of those days when the opening line of A Tale of Two Cities applies. I came home this afternoon to find my front porch literally littered with packages—the result of my recent shopping spree to Amazon. Books, glorious books lying about everywhere in plain brown wrappers. I bundled them up in my arms and carried them to the computer. Oh, to type or to read... Decisions, decisions... but then I opened them. Yes, they were all there. And yes, among them was Kay's Phantom, which I willingly admit I've not yet read. I know the story entirely, how it differs from Leroux, how it expands upon it, how it's the same and how it's not. But I hadn't actually read it. So tonight I started to. But I'm not sure I can bear it. The first 23 pages put me into a depressive funk so deep I thought I might never crawl out. I had to beg my husband—my non-Phantom fan husband—to pull me out and even then he was rather unsuccessful at this. I had written this chapter before I cracked that book, and after having opened it I felt so utterly steeped in melancholy that I could not even bear to edit this; can you believe it? yeah... so, that's why the extra mistakes and all. I'll come back and edit later, I promise... I just thought since I hadn't updated since Thursday I'd better get on the ball to maintain my reputation for being a fast poster.

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Elizabeth stopped to talk to Raoul before she left the Valerius apartment. He was not pleased with her at all; that much was obvious, and she understood it. She had not thought through her message clearly. The night before she had promised to "send word to the Comte" if she was going to be late. But in the morning that followed, she had sent Christine a message saying she would not be able to keep their appointment that day. She'd been distracted at the time she'd scribbled the short letter. She'd been distracted by Erik, distracted by Wilhelm, distracted by her own weariness. She was torn between wondering whether what Christine had accused her of in the hallway that night was true and noticing the way in which Erik was increasingly unkind. She'd been startled by the kind words from Wilhelm which tugged at her heartstrings. Had his letters always been so tender? And rereading, she'd determined that this was the way he'd always written; she simply had not noticed until now. What did it say of her that she had never before noticed this? And what did it mean that she suddenly _had_? At the same time she was curious about the reference to a case in England that was outside of his realm of study and concerned about his reference to the possibility to her returning to England—for secret reasons all her own. She hadn't thought carefully about whether it was appropriate to send a letter to Christine or not.

In all fairness, though, that wasn't true, either. She had thought on it a little. She had considered for a brief moment that Christine was not yet married to Raoul and that Raoul did not live at the location. In the event that the boy arrived with the letter and Raoul was not there, there was no way to be certain Christine would have gotten the message. She might have simply held the envelope and waited, still wondering where Elizabeth was. No, the solution would have been—should have been—to send two letters. She should have known that.

But she had been so very tired she hadn't realized she might offend Raoul. And what could she tell him now? I was up all night because Erik was having feverish and codeine-induced nightmares? Yes, certainly, if she wanted her hotel room raided and the poor man killed, for Raoul had said exactly that the last time they had talked, and she knew too little of him to be certain whether he would follow through on such a threat or not. She couldn't take the chance that he might. Even if her own feelings did not exist, she contemplated what it would do to Christine if Raoul killed Erik. It certainly wouldn't assuage her feelings of guilt. It could ruin any chances she had to be happy with Raoul, for hadn't she admitted that there were times she considered refusing to marry him, and they all involved the way he felt about Erik? And if Raoul happened to encounter Erik when he was strong enough, would Erik kill Raoul? Erik had never threatened anyone's life in her presence, but Raoul had called Erik a murderer and Christine had referenced three fatal "accidents" which seemed lay the blame entirely on Erik. Neither of the men could be trusted entirely at this point. Elizabeth must tread carefully.

She was somewhat heartened by the fact that Raoul appeared weary as well. At least she was not up against a man at his best at present. He took a seat across from her and actually sat, a far more receptive stance than his pacing at their prior meeting. Elizabeth studied his soft features, his shining hair, his blue eyes. Physically, there couldn't possibly be a better mate for Christine. With their light complexions, fair hair and matching azure eyes, they could have been a set of bookends. It was easy to see why Erik had become so jealous so easily for the young man was desperately handsome, cultured, polite—everything a girl, or her family, looked for in a husband. They had to have been close in age as well, for those Elizabeth did not know Raoul's age, she supposed looking at his smooth skin and innocent expression that he could not have been a day over eighteen. Still, she could remember a young girl who had once made her selection of a young man who was tall, handsome and from a good family based on exactly those things, with a disastrous end.

Raoul glared at her, but tiredly. "I imagine Christine has already told you of my great displeasure," he said, but while his words conveyed anger, his tone conveyed a sense of formality. He was saying so because he had to say so. It was a matter of principle, a matter of honor. At his core, he was fatigued by the pace of whatever it was with which his life had burdened him. Elizabeth wondered what all that entailed. His anger was a formality as would be her apology. She felt it best to get the rituals out of the way rather than quibble over their importance or lack thereof. Submission sometimes subdued men, and as she needed his help and his agreement, she could surely play her role.

She maintained eye contact but dropped her head a little. "The fault is mine, Comte," she said. "I apologize. At the time, I thought it appropriate as a letter from a woman to a woman. I also considered that perhaps you would not be here. Looking back, I see it was a fault, and I hope you accept my apology."

Raoul looked startled. "Your... apology?" he nearly stammered.

"Yes," she said politely. "You were upset, were you not?"

"Yes," he returned without hiding his surprise. "It is true, I was displeased. However, I expected a stern lecture regarding the fact that we are not yet married. Something to the fact that I have no right to handle a matter such as this for her."

"There is no need for me to say that. If I thought so and you disagreed, it would only anger you. If you believed it yourself, you wouldn't need to hear it from me."

He shook his head allowing a slight smile to creep onto his lips. "No, I am the one who needs to apologize," he said. "You came here of your own volition, unsolicited, offered to help and then did so. You've asked not a dime of me, and she's far better—why, she's herself again—in much shorter time than the doctors speculated. And I get angry with you for sending her a letter. Please, Madame, accept my sincerest apologies. I have been rather distressed since this whole matter of the opera house. You may have heard I lost my brother—my elder brother, who was like a father to me—to the tragedy of the Opera. In addition to the emotional strain, there has been the matter of the estate, then this recent ordeal with Christine. It has been... most difficult."

Elizabeth put on her consoling-the-grieved mask and nodded. "I'm so sorry," she said convincingly. She was impressed with his self-restraint. Was it a week ago? No, nearly two that he'd threatened to kill Erik if only she would tell him where he was. She couldn't be certain that he wouldn't, but he was far more stable now than before. Surely it was due to Christine's recovery. Whatever the case, it was convenient, for she desperately needed Raoul's help.

"Comte," she addressed him carefully, "I know too little of what your part in the Opera tragedy has been. I cannot judge. But even if I could, it is not my right. You don't owe me an apology. You owe me nothing."

"Why, that's utterly ridiculous. Surely I owe you something for what you've done for Christine alone—"

She stopped him. "You owe me nothing whatever. However, as you are feeling as though you do, and as I am in desperate need at the moment, perhaps we could work out an arrangement of some type? It will not cost you anything at all, I don't think, but I fear at least one part of it might anger you."

"Nonsense," he replied with a smile, and for a moment she pretended to believe him.

Raoul agreed quite easily to find Elizabeth a place to stay where she would have more room than she had at the hotel. He expressed surprise that she had remained in such close quarters for so long and quickly offered her a guesthouse at his country estate, which she promptly refused. While the fact that they were both driving in to see Christine daily made it seem ideal, Elizabeth referenced other friends, other responsibilities, and a desire to be within in the city in general. Her true reason, of course, was that she could not take Erik to a place where he would be in such close proximity to Raoul. She hoped her awkward explanation otherwise was believable. Raoul, however, didn't seem particularly interested in her reasons. He simply offered another suggestion—a place he had purchased for himself before the tragedy of the Opera had played out. He hoped to ask Christine to marry him, knew his brother would not approve and therefore made arrangements to purchase a small home in the city where they could reside until his family could be persuaded to accept his wife regardless of her status before the marriage. Due to the death of his brother—his expression changed to one of a mixture of sadness and rage every time he mentioned it—he now had charge of the entire estate, which included not only the country property at which he was presently living, but a great deal of land in various places; he no longer had need of the small house and planned to sell it, but Elizabeth could certain borrow it for as long as it was necessary to remain. Which brought them to the next item of discussion—how long would it be necessary to remain? Raoul certainly did not begrudge her the use of the small house, no. But was she staying entirely for Christine's sake, and if so, it was surely unnecessary now that Christine was cured, correct?

And it was here that the conversation became difficult for it was here that Elizabeth had to make it known that she would not feel the matter was entirely resolved until she was permitted to meet with Christine and the source of her fear simultaneously.

The young man's pale face colored, but he restrained himself from any outburst and instead simply said "Absolutely not."

"I understand your concern," Elizabeth began, but she was politely interrupted.

"I don't know what you know of the monster or how you know it. I do recall you said you were likely able to locate him, and if that's true, I would ask that he be brought to justice. But there is no need to involve Christine in it. He has done her enough harm. He has done... everyone... enough harm already. I cannot make you tell me his whereabouts, but I will insist that Christine not be exposed to this."

Elizabeth sighed. Even if she did not press this issue, it would be a terrible sin to move Erik into a home owned by Raoul considering his strong feelings. Nevertheless, she had little choice. She needed to vacate the hotel, and immediately. The quarters were cramped, the bed insufficient, the privacy bordering on non-existent and getting worse. But more importantly, Christine had seen Erik alive and despite her fears, she had expressed an interest in coming inside; the matter would have to be resolved if Christine was to marry Raoul and stay happily married. But it would be difficult to explain to sweet innocent Raoul who could not understand how his fiancée could possibly have any feelings for the monster; Raoul, who apparently believed entirely that Christine had been fooled and then abducted, that she had never journeyed beneath the surface by choice at all.

"Let me ask you a different question, then. Something perhaps you are more willing to do. Christine has spoken of someone she calls simply the Persian. Apparently you and he have been acquainted. If at all possible, I'd like to contact him."

Raoul looked perplexed but he responded without hesitation. "Yes, actually, I can tell you where to call upon him. We've remained in touch after the ordeal. His help was invaluable in finding Christine, though as ill luck would have it we were not able to rescue her after all and instead had to rely upon the mercy of the monster in the end. He contacted me when... " He had to force himself to say 'he' instead of 'it'—"when he... was supposed to have died, actually. Made mention of Christine and her promise. I thought very little of it at the time, though I suppose it was highly improper of me. You can imagine my concerns, of course. Christine would feel terribly guilty—she always did where he was concerned—and I expected it would upset her. I couldn't bring myself to care if he was decently buried. I know that's improper, too, but that's how deep my hatred of him runs. Of course, now that I think about it, if what you say is true—that he lives—I shudder to think what would have happened if she'd returned to bury the body as she said she promised. Perhaps that was his plan all along in faking his death in this way. Perhaps our old friend the Persian was even involved. No. No, I can't imagine he would be, for he seemed intent on helping me to rescue Christine. No, surely he was tricked as well."

"Or perhaps mistaken. I'm not so sure it was a trick," Elizabeth said softly, and Raoul eyed her suspiciously.

"What makes you say that?"

"It is possible that he absolutely intended to die. After all, what had he left to live for at that point?"

Raoul had to admit that the woman made a point. He shrugged.

"Perhaps he too simply has very ill luck in these matters," she added sadly. Indeed, had she never requested to explore the area beneath the Opera, Erik would have likely remained where he was. And given the condition in which she found him the second time, he likely would have died soon after had she not insisted otherwise. It struck a chord within her. This is why she could not simply assure herself that she had kept a promise and leave now. No. This was _her_ fault, for if she had not dragged Erik back from the depths, Christine never would have plunged into them. Now she seemed trapped in an endless cycle, the two of them circling about her making unreasonable demands and her only escape—England!

Raoul was staring her in a most peculiar way as though by staring at her he might come to understand the mystery of her sudden involvement in affairs that should have been absolutely none of her concern. "I will contact our old friend and give him the address at which you will be staying—the house about which I told you," Raoul said through a forced smile. "May I tell him to simply call upon you some evening?"

Elizabeth visibly stiffened. "No, I—" she hesitated. How could she say no? "I think—" And yet she _must_ for she did not know yet if the man could be trusted. He had helped Raoul who had said he would kill Erik with his own hands. She was losing control of everything around her and she felt she must know how Erik felt in trying to hold Christine and failing, how Christine felt in trying to make choices, how Raoul felt in trying to protect his love. Each tried to exercise control over others, over surroundings, even over self, and without success. It was a horrid feeling, like drowning, and she sought desperately to retain control though she knew it was not possible or practical. "Perhaps you could contact him and request that I be permitted to call upon him?" She knew it was dreadfully strange, and yet, she could not have anyone dropping by to visit—especially as she intended not to tell Erik she was in contact with his old acquaintance.

But Raoul did not seem to consider her suggestion peculiar in the least however. He replied "Certainly," as simply as if she had offered him a cup of tea. And his nonchalance gave her the courage to raise the other topic again.

"I am concerned about your refusal to allow Christine to meet with Erik," she said carefully, and she noticed that for a moment Raoul seemed not to know who she meant. Perhaps he'd thought of Erik so long as an animal or a monster that he had forgotten he had a name. When his confusion faded it was replaced with a stubborn lassitude, which, though not angry, was still troublesome.

"I thought we had discussed this," he said, and his fatigue was still more evident. "I suppose you're going to tell me I don't have the right to say no?"

"To me, it's irrelevant whether you do or not. I would need your cooperation for it to work at all since your interests are those that are at stake."

"Mine?" he was confused again. She peered at him carefully. Apparently, his nights were not much more restful than hers. She wondered what kept _him_ awake.

"Yours," she said. "I know it makes no sense at the moment, but suppose we assume everything is all right. I leave. Christine marries you. Won't you always wonder?"

"Where the beast is? If he is after us again? Perhaps. This is one—just one—of many reasons why he must be found before he does further harm." He had become alarmed.

"Why has he not yet been found?"

"Monsieur Faure. He thinks the Persian is a madman. He thinks I have been persuaded to believe him in my grief over my brother. Thinks the ghost was superstition all along and he was right, but alas, he will not go after what truly _is_ there!"

"And if someone did? Someone else?"

"Well, he'd stand trial, of course, and pay for his transgressions the same as any man."

"In this and this alone, we treat him as a man," she said. It was a simple statement but she spoke it like a prophesy, and Raoul stopped to give her a wild look.

"What are you suggesting?"

"If he were found by anyone who believes you, do you not think they would kill him immediately?"

"They might. What if they do?" He knew it was wrong. He knew that a man must be treated as a man, and yet... if that man chose to act as an animal does, at what point may he cease to deserve to be treated like a man? Raoul didn't want to think on it. He wanted justice for his brother, and could not think of justice for the other, for that would cause his judgment to falter, and if that happened... Well, if that happened, he might just find himself having to forgive... and he wouldn't. He would _not_. It was too much to ask. "I'm sorry," he told the woman. "That is not something that should ever be spoken aloud, let alone in the presence of a lady. Please, accept my apology. I am angry. I fear I will be angry for a very long time."

"Yes. But Christine is perhaps no longer angry. She needs to say goodbye and put this whole miserable chapter of her life away. You cannot leave her wondering what would have happened if she had done something differently.

"But can't you see I cannot allow it... I cannot bear... If I permit—no, it is not my right—but if I do not fight it I will lose—" He stopped suddenly. Had he actually been about to say that? Did he really still doubt her? Well, of course he did, though he was loathe to admit it. Certainly it was a terrible thing that she had been so frightened by the beast when she's seen him in the street that night, but for what purpose had she been sitting up staring out that window in the first place? Had she been looking _for_ him? Perhaps at least looking out over the darkness that was so like the lair they'd shared and _dreaming_ of him? It was terrible that she had been captured by the monster at the Opera house, but why had she chosen to not run away? Why had she so insisted that she must stay and sing that night? _If he does not hear me sing tomorrow, it will cause him infinite pain,_ she'd said. _Certainly he will die of my flight._ Raoul felt his stomach turn as his vision blurred before his eyes, but he gripped the arm of the chair and fought his way back to composure. She would not leave if it would cause him pain. She would not risk his life. Then surely she felt something more than fear.

He sat silent for a long time, then he said "I asked her once if she would love me if _he_ had been attractive. She said yes. No, she _didn't_ say yes. She kissed me. She said if she did not love me, she would not offer me her lips. But she never would say yes or no. If he had been attractive, I wonder whom she would have chosen then."

"Ultimately, that does not matter" Elizabeth interjected, "for that will never be." It was a statement of fact, and yet she felt a pang of guilt to say it aloud.

Raoul nodded, but he could not extinguish his lingering doubts. Why had Christine agreed to stay with the monster in the end? Had she really done it to save his life and the lives the two thousand above them? He sought to remember her face as he maneuvered the gondola across the underground lake. She had glanced back. Had she looked for a moment _wistful_? Why did she still wear that damned ring? Why hadn't she run away when he had offered to take her?

Raoul looked at the woman before him. He knew her not at all, yet Christine was herself again, and far more suddenly than he had dared to hope. He knew it was dangerous to place his life in the hands of a woman—any woman. He had done it before and look where it had gotten him. And yet, this time could be different. This woman was not given to hysterics like Christine. He considered his elder sisters and wondered idly what it was like to have a mother, whether they gave good advice, what his own mother would have said to him in this situation, if he'd ever had a chance to know her. It was useless to imagine, but perhaps women, with age, grew wiser. He knew he had to take the chance, but at the same instant he uttered the words, he also felt as he said them that he was losing Christine forever, sentencing himself to a life of loneliness, or at the very least, a life without his childhood love.

"The truth is," he gulped, "I could not stop this meeting if I tried." He appeared to feel he was losing a battle, yet Elizabeth had been so sure they weren't having one. She sought to alleviate his obvious pain.

"She loves _you_," she said softly. "And she's been confused. Consider the relationship—it was not a particularly romantic one from her perspective. He was a teacher to her. If she had a father or brother, you wouldn't question her attachment to them." It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, however.

"That's family," Raoul responded, and he seemed to have found his resolve. "Listen. He hid behind walls. He sang to her. He pretended to be a supernatural being and played upon her superstitions. He lied to her and then he abducted her. He captured her and tried to force marriage upon her. You can't tell me he loves her only as a pupil when he begged her to be his wife—" but she cut him off.

"And I would never presume to tell you that. But how does she feel about him? If he's only a teacher, if he's only the representation of something she once believed was a messenger from her father—I'm talking about what _she_ feels. Let her be certain what she feels. For if she is not certain what she does feel, then how will she know for certain it was _not_ love. Someday, something will happen. Perhaps the two of you will argue. Perhaps you will have to go away for a time. Do you want there to be space in her mind to wonder if she should have made another choice? Or do you want her to be absolutely certain?"

He was silent. The time when he would have to go away drew nearer every day. He didn't like to think on it under ordinary circumstances. The idea that she might seek out Erik during that time was unbearable.

She paused, met his eyes, lowered her voice. "You felt much safer when you were certain he was dead, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"Not only because you think he is a murderer, but also because you do not fully trust her."

He was in agony. How could he admit that he did not trust her? And yet, how _could_ he trust her? She had denied him—pretended not to know him—in the dressing room for Erik's sake. She had spoken of love in the private box that night at the masked ball in order to allow Erik time to escape. She had returned to Erik again and again. She had turned the scorpion. She had give him not even a glance when he wakened. He trembled at the memories. She had looked back upon the monster even as he pushed her heavily toward the other shore to safety. She had looked back. Then she had postponed the wedding. She had moved back into Mamma Valerius's apartment. She had stayed awake nights, watching out the window for the monster to return for her.

Raoul was not a weak man, nor a coward, but he knew better than to fight a losing battle. He would not prevent their meeting, and reluctantly resigned himself to losing his one true love forever.

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I feel somewhat better now, having posted this, though Kay still troubles me greatly. (Perhaps some reviews will make me feel better? Please try. They certainly can't hurt!)


	42. Chapter 42: Surrender

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Due to a busy work schedule (and the demands of writing this) I have reached only p. 60 of Kay. I have, however, recovered from my utter revulsion. (Yes, I know... it will return. I try to be prepared for that.) I hope all of you enjoy this chapter. I think I'm pretty pleased with the way it turned out. I _had_ hoped it would be a bit longer, but it didn't seem to lend itself to more, so this is all there is. Hope I didn't leave many glaring typos or anything. There will definitely be more this weekend. And as ever, **thanks for reading**.

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When Elizabeth returned to the hotel late that afternoon, she found Erik's tall form draped casually across the bed in his usual attire—not the pajamas—and his plain black mask. Her book was where she had left it; apparently he had not touched it since the day before when he ridiculed it—or her. He looked up at her with glowing amber eyes when she entered and she hesitated. It had become still more difficult to tell what he was feeling of late. She could surmise that anger was linked to fear as it was in the general population, but she could not be sure the same connections applied. The glint of light in his eyes was far too little on which to base an interaction. She wished he'd remove the mask, and yet she felt it disrespectful to ask. It had been easy beneath the Opera considering the easy way they'd fallen together after she found him, but he had, perhaps deliberately, put distance between them recently, and she felt as though all that had happened below had not actually happened at all. He sensed her hesitation and glanced away with a sigh that made her wish she'd behaved differently.

She couldn't know it, but he was considering what it was he most wanted at the moment while he was staring at her intently. He was asking himself whether he wanted her to embrace him or not, and he was deciding that he would rather prefer it if she did. She did not realize that he had indeed been reading her book—had read more and more deeply into it all the while reflecting deeply on unpleasant emotions. Anger was an easy thing to feel but a difficult one to explain. Fear he would never admit to anyone, but it was ever present, niggling at the back of his mind even in the few brief moments during which he should have felt happiness. And hatred, especially self-loathing, had grown more intense after the ordeal with her Persian and the then-Vicomte. Before Christine had dared to tear his mask from his face, there had been moments of hope, but they had retreated and, though they had returned briefly when he had "married" her, they had fled again when he realized what he had done and sent her away. _All I wanted was to be loved for myself_, he had told her, but now, when it seemed he had actually had the chance for the first time in his life, he had purposely driven her away. He could not have Christine—would never have her—and though it still hurt, he could perhaps accept it someday. What he could not accept was the fact that here before his eyes was a woman who acted as though she entirely accepted him and he found it impossible to dare to hope that it was true.

She stood in the doorway, still hesitating. Christine had at last agreed, and Raoul had been persuaded. Raoul had granted her a temporary residence, and though she had not told him that it was her intention, she would take Erik with her if he would go. She would have to visit the place first to be certain, but she rather expected it had a parlor or sitting room of sorts in which they could meet when the time came. But she did not dare arrange such a meeting with the distance that currently lay between Erik and herself. If he was to meet with Christine it must be absolutely safe for all involved, and she was not sure she could assure anyone of that. If Erik became angry and she could not calm him, Christine would be in fear, and with good reason. If Christine were horrified, it would cause Erik immense pain, and it would not be possible to comfort him if he didn't trust her. Presently he wouldn't even allow her near enough to touch him. She feared a meeting could be disastrous, but she could not wait forever, nor could she abandon the idea.

"She agreed," she said without emotion from the door.

His eyes flickered in response. Christine had agreed. Why was Elizabeth still so intent he see Christine? Couldn't she see how she'd hurt him? Why must they do this? Ah yes, he reminded himself. It was his obsession. He had not let it go, and now _she_ would not. Perhaps he deserved this.

"Also there is a place to which we can go where you are less likely to be discovered," she said. "It may perhaps be a place that can be made appropriate for that meeting," she added. When he did not respond she said, "There is more than one bed, in separate rooms of course. We shall not have to take turns any longer."

He turned away. Of course, he thought. She would not sleep beside him. Of course, it was actually _he_ who prevented it, as she seemed strangely willing to do so. But it was improper. To do so would be at once a betrayal of Christine and a betrayal of this woman herself, for no one should have to be so close... to _this_. Must never forget that, he thought viciously. As though he could. And yet, hadn't he almost done so on a few rare occasions? How good it had felt!

He nodded. He would not address the issue of the bed. It was dreadful enough that it was in the room at all—that he was sitting upon it now in her presence. It was utterly without tact, yet what could he do? And what of the marriage to Christine? True, it had not been a real wedding, but it had been something nonetheless. What could be done about it now? He stared at her in a mass of emotional confusion. He had only moments before dressed in his usual clothing, replaced his mask, put the book where he had found it and unlatched the door, returning the hotel room to the exact state in which she'd left it. He had spent all the time she was gone—save the brief period when he forced himself to eat the meal she had left for him—looking at that dreadful book, and it was mothers and sons, mothers and sons, over and over again. He'd spent a portion of the time angry, another portion despondent, but confusion had sunken in shortly before he noticed the time and realized his need to prepare for the woman's arrival, for it was not appropriate to greet a woman—any woman—dressed so, regardless of excuse. But he was so tired, he'd found it difficult to resist the temptation to lie down, and now he wondered what she thought of that.

He marveled at her ability to speak in a completely emotionless tone. He regarded her face and at last comprehended that she was able to do it with her face as well. She would reveal nothing to him. She might be sickened by the thought of him or she might pity him more than anyone before her, but he would never know which, for she would never reveal it. He spent a long moment gazing at her, and at last he spoke. "What did she say?" he said as blandly as he could manage.

She sighed and he tried desperately to gauge the emotion in the release of breath. "She feels terrible that you were upset by the events of the last two weeks. She wonders how you are feeling. She hopes you will not be angry..."

"She thinks that..." she could hear the pain in his voice "I would be _angry_?" He was only slightly angry now, and it was at the idea that Christine could expect him to be angry with her now that made him feel so. But stronger than the anger was the sorrow as he realized why she expected anger from him first, and his emotions threatened to betray him once again in the presence of this woman who did not display hers.

He drew a ragged breath and Elizabeth wondered whether illness or emotion caused the catch she heard in it. He let it out again in a rapid burst that she could not be sure was a cough or a sob. She reached for him even as he turned away with his hands to his masked face. She put her hands on his shoulders. He trembled with excitement at her touch but shook her off with a growl. Even as he realized that he had done it again he could not stop himself. It was second nature. He turned and gripped her arms with his bony fingers so that the fabric of her dress sleeves puckered and she felt sure bruises would result beneath. "You will not touch me," he snarled. He felt her body go limp in his hands as she declined to resist him. Her dark eyes met his and he probed their depths as he sought to understand her, unsuccessfully.

She met his eyes without fear. "As you wish, Erik," she said simply. He was profoundly aware that what he had just demanded of her was the exact inverse of what he wished, but there seemed to be no easy way to convey it. As he considered it, he became aware of how close she was to him, how unflinchingly she met his gaze and how utterly soft she felt. He tightened his grip.

She sensed his confliction, perceived that there was something he was trying to say and asked, "Is there something more?" This was an opportunity, he realized, but it didn't make it any easier to say. He ground his teeth together as he hissed, "Yes," into her face.

"What's that?" she asked softly, her eyes wide.

He was drawing her closer and before he knew it his hands had left her arms and were upon her waist, though his grip was still a vice. He was sure he was causing her pain and yet he could _not let go_. "Never," he growled through clenched teeth "under any circumstances," he slid one hand to the back of her head and twined his fingers in her hair the way he had that first day, though infinitely less roughly than he had then, "obey my last order," he finished helplessly, giving himself over to her entirely.

She raised her hands and placed them upon his chest feeling his breastbone and the wild beating of his heart even though his coat. "I never will," she responded and he roughly pulled her closer so that her cheek pressed against the mask.

He tightened his arms about her waist until she was breathless then released her and shoved her away. "Whatever misery you suffer as a result of that, you shall have earned," he warned her.

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So... what do you think? I felt pretty good about this one. I didn't let you all down, did I? Sorry it's shorter than the rest... it just seemed like the place to break it. If there's something lacking, please let me know!!


	43. Chapter 43: Changes

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: I love weekends! How's that for fast? A chapter by 8:40 p.m. And if all goes well, the next one might even be ready before bedtime. Ah... weekends!

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The next day, when her time with Christine was up, Elizabeth allowed Raoul to drive her to the small house he had agreed to lend her. She found it quite sufficient and determined to move her belongings (and companion) there immediately. She had only a valise or two, so it would be no trouble she assured Raoul, who continually offered to help. She accepted the key, allowed him to drive her back to the hotel, and bid him goodbye until the following day. She packed her bags, once again noticing the large envelope containing the picture and the documents Wilhelm had sent her. Well, what of that? She had not answered his letter, nor sent one to London. She must do so at once—but what should it say? Would it be proper to have Erik accompany her? Well, no. It wouldn't be proper in the traditional sense of the word. But would it be _right_ she wondered. To what exactly had she agreed the night before? Never under any circumstances... Was that a _commitment_? Did it imply _forever_? If it did, surely he would accompany her—unless he dared to demand she not go. She considered. He had apparently forbidden Christine to do many things, but Elizabeth had not seen that side of him much at all. He was manipulative, yes, but only until he discovered his usual form of manipulation were not working. Then he was utterly rational, until the issue of his appearance was raised again.

She resolved to tell Erik about the possible visit to England when the time came and not before. There was no need to distract him or upset him before the meeting with Christine, after all. While he was sleeping she sent a brief response to Wilhelm--a mere four lines. She thanked him for what he'd sent, apologized for the brevity of this letter, said that she would brave a visit to London if the good doctor would receive her, and wished him all the best. She did not sign her letter with love and affection but instead with kindest regards. She hoped it wasn't cruel, but in truth, he had been waiting for her for too long, and she had no intention of giving in to his romantic demands. She sent a second letter—to the Esteemed Doctor Treves requesting an audience with him. She didn't mention Erik. That would be a matter to discuss later—once she knew Erik's mind. In the meantime, she had bigger concerns about England—such as the fact that she was supposed to know it like the back of her hand—but didn't.

Moving Erik to the small house was entertaining, if not entirely simple. Elizabeth was concerned that he was not entirely well; Erik assured her she worried far too much; He would meet her outside. He urged her to arrange for a carriage, arrange for her baggage to be taken downstairs—and _he_ would arrange for himself. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Elizabeth did as she was told. When the valet hailed a cab for her and the driver pulled up at the curb, Elizabeth felt her heart sink. Erik was nowhere to be seen. She would have to find a way to stall for time, to wait for him. She glanced up and down the street with trepidation. The streetlamps glowed brightly; it was not dark enough for him to steal inside undetected. She would have cursed aloud if the valet had not been standing so closely, waiting to open the door. Instead she gave him a close-lipped smile and a few coins from her black-gloved palm. He opened the door for her, extended his hand, helped her to the bench. She had been so fixated on the valet she had not even noticed _Erik was already inside_. She nearly screamed aloud, but restrained herself. The door closed and they were in darkness. She could tell he was smiling beneath the mask.

She folded her hands in her lap as the carriage began to move. She kept her voice level, her eyes forward. "How did you manage that?"

"Prestidigitation," he replied as though it were entirely commonplace. He was sitting very still and facing forward formally.

She remembered her promise of the night before and as she laughed aloud she turned to him and put her arms around him. He stiffened and placed his hands upon her, palms out, pushing her away. As she reached down for his hands, they both realized they had landed in a most inappropriate location. He snatched them away, drew them back to himself, but hers went along for the ride. "Never, under any circumstances," she reminded him.

His eyes flashed in the darkness. "Whatever misery," he reminded her.

They settled in. It was a most bizarre arrangement. The home was entirely furnished, as Raoul had had it made ready for a possible sudden and unapproved of marriage to Christine. There was an exquisite master suite, which both Elizabeth and Erik avoided even looking at, let along entering or considering sleeping in. There was a second room, equally exquisite, slightly smaller, with a larger closet and furniture that was clearly intended for the lady of the house. As Erik did not know the owner of the home, he had no way of knowing these things were intended for Christine and he insisted Elizabeth take this room. A third room seemed to be intended for guests. It was finely furnished, but little care had been taken in the decorating. It was rather clear that Raoul had not planned to have any guests that first year. Erik took the liberty of locking himself in that room for an extended period of time leaving Elizabeth utterly worried outside—which gave her a chance to explore the parlor, the dining room, the kitchen, the garden...

There could be no servants, for despite it's being a private home, Elizabeth still must keep Erik a secret. There would be no more convenience of having the hotel kitchen deliver a meal, but then, it didn't matter. There hadn't been a hotel kitchen in the Opera basement, either. Elizabeth welcomed the chance to try preparing food above ground in a modern kitchen rather than in Erik's lair. And she idly remembered that Christine claimed Erik had provided a wide variety of meals for her somehow in the time she'd spent beneath. Perhaps when he wasn't dying or depressed or suicidal or ill...

Elizabeth was careful with him. She would touch his shoulder when she encountered him as she passed through a room, reach across the table to squeeze his hand as they dined, put a hand on his back when he seemed distressed and lightly embrace him before she made her way to her room to sleep. At first it seemed he tensed with each contact, but in time, with careful effort, she was able to relax him with a single touch upon the shoulder. It was a trick she expected he would much like to learn. Perhaps if he would teach her light of hand, she would share the secrets of hypnosis with him. She often kept her hand upon his shoulder as they talked of Christine. He found it quite odd that he could think on it—on her—without being moved to tears. Now that he thought upon it clearly, he rather thought that perhaps he had not been in love with her at all but with the idea of being in love with anyone. She was just the one who had seemed his best chance. His _only_ chance, really, and that was his desperation.

Elizabeth gently persuaded him to enter the garden during the daylight—how long had it been since he'd seen daylight? It seemed a terrible idea at first, but when she stood beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear, he felt compelled to listen to her. She showed him the fences, the tall lattices, the vines that grew heavy, and the fact that no neighbors were about, and he dared, quite timidly, to draw a chair near to the door and sit beneath the ivy for a few moments. She stood beside him, beaming. Even when she declined to hide her emotions, she was still an utter enigma to him.

She still left him during the days to visit Christine. He still spent the days reading Freud. He wouldn't admit it to her, but he had decided it was not _complete_ nonsense. Another thing he would not tell her—not yet, anyway—was that twice he had dared to open the back door and take a single step into the garden. He must be careful, of course, for to be seen could mean ridicule—or even death. But he was _very _careful. He had always been good at not being seen when it was critical. Actually, there were many things he did not tell her, but his reasons were different now from before. He no longer kept secrets for fear, but because it had occurred to him that didn't women like to be surprised? She always seemed rather delighted when he managed to surprise her; perhaps this latest would please her a little...

In his room there was a large and ornately framed mirror—the sole wall-hanging in the room. The first night he had caught a glimpse of the tired flicker in his eyes beneath the black mask and had swiftly removed a small quilt from the bed and covered the offending glass. It figured, did it not, that in a room where all the walls were entirely bare but for one item, that one item had to be the thing he abhorred most in the world. Still, it gave him an opportunity. Each day after Elizabeth left and before he began reading, he carefully turned the key in the lock of the door of the room he occupied. He removed the quilt ceremoniously and stood before the mirror staring at his masked face.

The first day he stood unmoving for a long time. He had not purposely looked in a mirror in years. He could not remember a time he had. He stared at his sunken eye sockets, for they could be seen through the eyeholes of the mask. Then he scrutinized the rest of the picture. He was too thin. He looked frail. He looked sickly next to someone like—like—_that boy_ that Christine had chosen. He held up his hands. Yes, he could have seen them without the mirror, but this was an exercise in courage. They were skeletal, the skin almost transparent. His fingers were too long and so were the palms of his hands. Good for playing the organ, yes, but apparently not so good for holding the hand of a woman. He remembered Christine's gasps of terror as she snatched her hands away, how she tried to push his hands away when he touched her temples that first night. He glanced from his hands to his face. _That_ was how Elizabeth could tell he realized when he met his own eyes, for even with the mask firmly in place, his eyes betrayed his emotions. Despite their depth, the edges seemed to turn down and the light in them faded making them look far more death-like than they had before he'd remembered Christine's reaction to his hands. He would have to remember to be cautious of his eyes.

At long last, he carefully removed the mask with his eyes closed. If it was too much, he told himself, he had a choice. He could close his eyes, or he could replace the mask. He had two escapes. He breathed slowly and deliberately, calming himself. When had he learned to do that, a small part of his mind wondered? He opened his eyes slowly and his image swam into his vision. Like Death, he thought simply but without horror. He replaced the mask, replaced the quilt, and walked away.

But day after day as he returned to repeat this exercise again and again, he was able to bear it a moment longer each time. The fourth day he moved closer to the mirror to inspect his skin more carefully and found that in addition to being rather hideously yellow compared to everyone else, he had abrasions and sores from having failed to remove the mask for such a length of time. That night and afterwards, he locked the door and slept without it. On the fifth day he turned from side to side, inspecting his visage carefully. What could be done about it? He had in the Opera basement a collection of false noses that made him infinitely more bearable, though he had still be called the Opera Ghost the night he'd worn one to the managers' farewell banquet. He placed a hand over the gaping hole where a nose should have been. If this were covered, what else could be done? he wondered. The rest was still _so awful_.

And suddenly he remembered—the mask!_ I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody, _he had told Christine earlier the same evening he had released her forever. And it was true. It had been an arduous task. It had taken an eternity and a small fortune just to acquire the materials, then longer still to learn how to use them. But it had been worth it! _People will not even turn round in the streets! _he'd told Christine, and he'd meant it. It was exquisite. It was thin in places and thicker in others so that when upon his face, the thickened areas brought his sunken cheekbones to normal depth, made him appear to have lips, and would fit properly over a false nose to give it the appearance of actually being a part of his face. The material stretched like human skin. He rather expected that once he became practiced at affixing it to his own face properly, facial expressions could show through. Yes, it could be done, perhaps. He could venture into the garden without having to be so careful. The garden! Why, he could walk right down the busiest street of Paris and no one would give him a second glance! Why had he not thought of it before?

His eyes returned to the mirror, meeting his own gaze once again. Alas, his eyes. There was nothing he could do about his eyes. They would always be that peculiar color, and they would always be deep-set. There was nothing a mask could do to bring his eyes to the surface. Indeed, it made them appear slightly more sunken, for it added depth to his face. Still, if it made him bearable at least...

He reached a thin bony hand to his skull-like face, touched the tips of his fingers to his cheekbone, pushed at the little flesh that was there, pinched at it. Touched the gaping hole in the center of his face, tried to smile at himself and observed that even his smile looked hideous like a laughing death's head. He put the black mask back on and looked again. This, too, was rather hideous. It was no wonder he'd gotten the reactions he had over the years. But now perhaps he had the means to change it.

And while Erik practiced accepting himself and planned a variety of surprises for Elizabeth, it never occurred to him to wonder if she had similar ideas. He could not for all the world have guessed her plans, for she had contacted the Persian and had managed to learn Erik's surname as she planned a surprise of her own.

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**Obligatory Shameless begging:** Please, please, please, please review for me. Oh, PLEEEEEEEEEASE?


	44. Chapter 44: Encounter

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Two chapters in one day—can you believe it? And now... the moment we've all been waiting for...

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Surely it was time, Elizabeth thought. Christine had progressed to a point where she could speak objectively of Erik. She admired his musical talents, was grateful for the lessons he'd given her, had forgiven him for impersonating the Angel of Music, felt sorrow for his lot in life, feared his anger, but had accepted the idea that perhaps even Erik could learn to control his rage. Naturally, she still had no desire to marry him. Even had he not been cursed with his deformity, he was more than twice her age and infinitely more worldly. He made her feel like a child, and she wanted to be a woman. Still, she admitted a certain tenderness for him which she hoped—but doubted—when explained, would ease the pain of knowing that she could not love him.

Erik seemed a different person entirely. Having "learned" to relax (Elizabeth felt only the slightest bit guilty about her mild deception) he no longer resorted to rage so quickly. She hadn't seen him angry since they left the hotel, and she had seen him apparently fearful only once or twice. He was able to speak about Christine without weeping or trembling. This alone was cause for celebration. He was still adamant that the mask remain upon his face at all times, and though ultimately Elizabeth worried about this, she admitted to herself that it was best for the meeting with Christine. And so, with the consent of each, Elizabeth selected the date and arranged to bring Christine to the home. She would go and get Christine, for she didn't want to risk having Raoul in proximity in his fragile emotional state.

Having arranged the logistics of the meeting previously, Elizabeth led Christine to the garden while Erik remained behind his locked door. With Christine securely in the garden, she encouraged Erik back to the parlor with the intention of bringing Christine into the parlor to greet him. She found him utterly different from the way she had left him perhaps an hour earlier when she departed for Christine. He was perched on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

"Erik!" she whispered loudly from the door, "What's happened?"

He looked up at her, but his eyes were lifeless. He shrugged.

"Erik, please," she said kneeling in front of him to look into his eyes. She grasped his hands, stood and placed her hands upon his shoulders, wound her arms around his neck, embraced him tightly whispering gentle words in his ear.

He stood and walked to the door looking a bit more like the man he'd become, but not quite. At the door he turned and looked at her again. "Perhaps this is not the best of ideas," he said softly.

It wouldn't take much to convince Elizabeth of that now. She closed her eyes.

"She is already here, is she not?" he asked. She nodded.

"So be it," he responded. "Where I am to be?"

"Erik," she stopped him with a hand on his elbow. "Tell me first what's wrong."

He considered this for a few moments. "I have not seen her, save those nights at the window, for months. I have not spoken to her since she left. The world believed me dead, but she did not return to fulfill her promise. It is hard to face her now."

His calm demeanor reassured Elizabeth. "You can do this, Erik," she said with resolve.

He nodded and met her eyes. He was standing straight again, no longer had the appearance of one who had been beaten down. "It was not meant to be," he said softly. "It doesn't change the way I felt about her. It may not have been what I thought it was, but it doesn't change that I did think it. And..." _I have no idea how to behave in her presence now._ He had never met her on equal footing. He had first been a supernatural force with power over her, then nothing more than a poor dog ready to die for her. There was supposed to be something in between, was there not? Humanity, perhaps? Oh, it was too soon for this, for despite his talks with Elizabeth, his occasional forays into the garden, and his secret encounters with the mirror, he did not yet feel human. Perhaps he never would. He looked at the woman standing beside him. He had planned to surprise her; he had planned to impress her. To falter now would not bode well for the future. To admit that he _could not_ was not an option.

"Yes?" Elizabeth was waiting for him to complete the thought.

"Nothing. Let us proceed at once." Now he was all business. He stepped crisply to a parlor chair that faced the door and sat, casually, comfortably... _confidently_, Elizabeth thought. Yes, he could do this.

Elizabeth brought Christine in from the garden and asked her to stand a moment. She reentered the parlor to reassure herself of Erik's state of mind. Erik's posture was one of self-assurance and the look in his eyes seemed to ask her why she was delaying the inevitable. Elizabeth crossed back to the door behind which Christine stood and opened it with heart pounding. Christine stood framed in the doorway. She was wearing a pale yellow dress with white trim. The top of her hair was put up neatly, but the back hung down in loose golden curls. She was fair and pale and beautiful. Elizabeth was keenly aware of the stark difference between the appearance of the girl in front of her and her own in her funerary attire. She opened the door a little wider to allow her entrance; Erik and Christine could easily see one another now, and Christine advanced slowly glancing first in front of her, then at Elizabeth with trepidation, then in front of her again. Elizabeth heard a soft rustle behind her and surmised that Erik had stood for Christine's entrance. She followed the girl's movements with her head but shifted her eyes rapidly to the other side of the room to gauge Erik's reaction.

For a moment she did not see him. She had to glance down, for he was _on his knees_. He was on his knees before the beauty with his head bowed, his eyes averted, but his arms outstretched. Elizabeth stared at his wretched form bleakly for a moment then turned away in utter disgust. Just a moment ago he had been a man—a nervous man, perhaps, beneath feigned confidence. A deeply saddened man, even. But in the moment it had taken Elizabeth to open the door he had completed a metamorphosis into a worm. He fairly slithered to Christine in a posture of worship. No. Degradation. His fingers stopped in the air, inches from the fabric of her dress as though an invisible barrier surrounded her, isolated her from him. Elizabeth dared to glance at Christine's pale face and saw that if she felt any horror at all, she was carefully concealing it behind a tight-lipped smile. Ah, it was fortuitous that she possessed such skill, for in his present state, it was unlikely Erik could have endured a scream, or even a gasp.

Elizabeth quietly closed the door and took a series of small slow steps backward to stand beside it against the wall. In time, she would direct a conversation, but for the moment, it seemed critical to observe. She had never seen them in each other's presence before.

Christine was staring down at the gaunt form huddled at her feet, upon her bloodless lips a frozen smile that did not reach her eyes. Erik's hands had slowly withdrawn from their close proximity to Christine's skirts, found one another, and were clasped together, his bony fingers twisted and entwined about one another as though in prayer. He had not yet dared to raise his eyes, to probe the appearance of her face, to determine the expression that resided there, but he was aware that she had not screamed. For that much he was grateful, anyway. He feared to look, though, for he was sure he couldn't bear an expression of distaste, and while it was agony not to know, it could be greater misery _to_ know.

They stood, suspended in time, for what seemed an eternity. Christine glanced at Elizabeth questioningly, and Elizabeth shrugged. Erik could not have realized the exchange took place, for he was utterly still, his eyes still downcast. Christine continued to stare at Elizabeth, now widening her eyes to convey to the older woman that she had utterly no idea what to do. Elizabeth found herself silently willing the younger woman to reach down, stoop down even, grasp him by the shoulders, meet his eyes and raise him to his feet. This idolatry had persisted far too long already; there would be nothing left of him to pursue a conversation. But as Elizabeth was not telepathic and Christine not a mind reader, she remained as she was. Elizabeth felt the blood rush to her cheeks and realized she felt humiliation on his behalf. She tried to look at him, noticed how his hands trembled and had to glance away.

An eternity later Christine at last realized that looking at Elizabeth was not going to help her and managed to whisper his name. At this he sighed and slowly turned his masked face upward slightly, though he fixed his eyes on a point below her face and off to the side so that he was staring past her, not at her, as though the radiance of her beauty would forever blind him. "Christine," he croaked, his voice, not yet entirely recovered from his illness, now thick with emotion. At this her countenance broke and the worry spread across her face rapidly. The voice! she thought. His illness had perhaps utterly destroyed the voice! And it was at this moment that the poor unfortunate man at last dared to glance at her visage, mistook her worry for horror and cowered away raising an arm to shield his already masked face. He blundered backwards into the chair in which he had previously been sitting appearing so confident and went no further.

Christine was firmly planted in the place she had been standing all this time. She could not have moved either towards or away from him if she had been in desperate need, such was her dismay. Her white-gloved fingers were still perfectly laced in front of her, her head still inclined downward staring at the place where he had been; the only thing about her which changed in the least was the expression on her face which was rapidly declining through emotions from worry to horror as she realized the misperception, then to regret that she had once again caused him pain and finally utter sorrow as she accepted that this was their perpetual fate. Ironically, having previously been unable to look at her, once he dared, he could not tear his eyes away. Consequently, he saw these further changes of expression and could not imagine that her unpleasant emotions were directed at herself and the unfortunate coincidence of the situation rather than of him.

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What do you say? Can you ever forgive me for this? Yes or no? Click "Submit review" to let me know.


	45. Chapter 45: Free

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Ah, how nice it is to have free time to write and be able to post these chapters for you. Thanks to all who reviewed the last three chapters. There is a long note for all of you posted by me in the "reviews" area. I believe it is review number 194, the most recent one. Please read if you recently posted an anonymous review, as there are personal notes for each of you there.

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At last, Elizabeth stepped forward and crouched in front of him blocking his view of the angel that so tormented him. She waved her fingers before his eyes, called his name, then without warning put her arms under his and awkwardly helped him into the chair against which he'd been leaning. She touched his shoulder with her fingertips as she turned to Christine. He closed his eyes. It was a gentle touch. It was not Christine, but it still felt good to be touched that way. Part of him wanted to pull away while another part of him ached to move nearer. In the end, he remained as he was, but felt his muscles, aching with tension, melt into a state of relaxation such that he could not have imagined a few months prior.

"Please," he heard her say to Christine, without seeing either of them, "sit down." And her fingertips left his shoulder and there was a gentle rustling of fabric as both ladies sat down. He heard the sounds of silverware and china and realized that Elizabeth had timed their meeting perfectly for tea. It occurred to him to wonder if he would be expected to partake, for it would be essentially impossible. He groaned inwardly and wished this meeting were not taking place. He opened his eyes and dared to look at her again.

He was utterly ashamed for a myriad of reasons. First, he had immediately reverted to his former behaviors upon having merely glanced at her. She would think that he had not changed in the least—and perhaps he had not. Second, as he gazed at her now, he could not understand what had possessed him to go on his knees before her in such a way. She was pretty, yes. She had always been lovely. Her soft features, her pale skin, her golden hair—surely there was not a man alive would not be attracted to her!—but she was just a girl. How old was she now? Had she yet reached her nineteenth birthday? He realized that he had no idea what month it was. He was still entirely out of touch with reality in a way he had never been before, not even in the recesses of the Opera. Could he ever return to what had once been normal for him, let alone to something beyond? It seemed that once he met her, she had entirely consumed his life so that when she departed, there was nothing left. And yet... he looked at her. She was holding her teacup and saucer carefully, sitting up very straight, trying to look quite proper. She looked far younger than she was in reality—like a little child having a tea party. How could he have loved her? Had he loved her? Did he love her still? Something ached inside him, but it was not as it had been before. He could not place it, but something had changed. Yet his outward behavior had not. He almost smiled beneath the mask as he wondered what Doctor Freud would say about such a situation. Blame his mother, no doubt.

"Erik?" It was Elizabeth speaking to him from the side. He glanced at her. She was holding the teapot. He shook his head slightly and was glad that she did not press him. "Christine." The girl looked at her with an expression of innocence. "So let's talk about this, shall we?" Christine nodded. Erik did not respond. Elizabeth smiled. "So, Christine, tell me your thoughts and feelings since you walked in." She glanced at Erik. Her eyes seemed to say, "listen" and when she glanced back at Christine, they seemed to say "careful!"

"It's very odd," Christine began (carefully) "to be greeted in such a manner. Only Erik greets me on his knees. It is rather difficult to know how to respond."

_Perhaps only Erik has ever truly respected you,_ Erik thought, but he said nothing.

"And I never wanted—you must believe me—" she added glancing at Erik "to hurt him in any way. Never. So I am always afraid to say the wrong thing. So I say nothing. And then this hurts him, and he becomes angry. Then I am afraid, and this angers him still more until—" she glanced fearfully at Erik and his heart sank still further. "I am afraid to say anything," she finished weakly.

"Afraid!" Erik could not help but mutter. There was contempt in his voice which he could not disguise, and Christine flinched. Erik seemed to stiffen. Elizabeth's hand reached toward him, but she was too far away to reach him where he sat.

"Hesitant?" Elizabeth offered.

"That's a better word," Christine readily agreed. "One has to be so careful. Erik, I'm so sorry. I wasn't careful. I wasn't kind."

Was that pity again? he wondered. But pity was better than loathing, was it not? He sighed with resignation letting go of the anger once again. "It is not necessary to be sorry, Christine," he said softly, his eyes fixed upon the floor. Then he dared to glance up briefly as he said, "I should not have approached you. I apologize." He noticed her expression had changed from smiling to a look of consternation again. He slowly lowered his eyes again. "Which of the many terrible things about me horrifies you at this time, Christine?" he asked faintly.

"Oh, no!" she said with sudden recognition. "No, Erik, you mustn't think that at all. Just now I was upset because I had offended you, that's all. I am not upset with you but with myself. Believe it, Erik, for it is the truth!"

He almost believed it, but she had been upset before this. "I should not have spoken to you," he whispered.

Christine frowned at him for a moment in confusion, then her face lit up with understanding. "No!" she cried out immediately. "Erik, no! I was worried when you spoke, that's all. You hardly sound like yourself. I worried for you. Did it show on my face? I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't mean—" And she cut herself off looking as though she were about to cry.

Was it so simple? Could he have simply cleared his throat and said, "Do not worry, Christine. I am nearly recovered," and all would have been well? And instead he had made a fool of himself on the floor. His face felt hot beneath the mask and he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He was ashamed. How utterly foolish! But he had been made a fool long before, for hadn't he already been on his knees? Oh, to be able to do it all again and remain in the chair, or perhaps simply rise and take her hand. No. He was not to touch her hands. Then how was he to greet her? Oh, how his head was beginning to throb. The room seemed to tilt as though they were on a ship sailing through a storm, and though Erik had never felt seasick under such conditions, he felt ill now. He gripped the arms of the chair, gritted his teeth, and tried to control his breathing.

"Erik?" Both women were staring intently at him now. Could they _tell_? Elizabeth had placed her teacup on the table and was leaning forward in her chair, holding out a hand toward him. He stared at it for a moment, then cautiously extended his. It was the briefest of touches, a gentle squeeze, then each of their hands was returned to its prior position, but in that brief moment he had utterly relaxed. The pitching of the room had instantly stopped, he ceased to clench his teeth and his hands released their white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair, relaxed into their normal posture, returned to their usual placid pallor.

Christine marveled at the seeming normalcy of the touching of their hands and at the sudden transformation that had taken place in Erik. That Elizabeth had extended her hand was odd enough in itself. Christine vividly remembered Erik's hands—they were thin, bony, and though perhaps not at the moment, in her memory they smelled of death. They seemed no different now. Was Elizabeth blind? Insensitive to touch? Or was Christine's speculation that night in the hallway accurate after all? Did he _return_ those feelings? He _had_ extended his hand, and it had had the most amazing of effects over his whole body. What sort of magic was this?

"Erik." Again, he had taken too long to respond. Trying to converse, without time to think about one's responses, was wearying. "I believe Christine was indicating a general concern for your health..." It was a question, but he wasn't sure what to do with it. "How _are_ you feeling now?"

Was this the way tea was supposed to go? he wondered. He nodded. "Better," he managed, glancing up briefly, and Christine smiled. Was that a genuine smile? He looked carefully at her eyes. It seemed to be. Had he ever made her smile before?

Elizabeth could not remember ever encountering a more difficult seeming social situation. They had so much to say yet neither of them would say a thing. When she felt none of them could bear the silence a moment longer, she intervened again. "Christine, I think we might talk about the night of the carriage ride," she said.

"Carriage ride?"

"The night you saw Erik. In the carriage. Beneath your window."

"Yes," she said and her voice sounded once again filled with fear. Erik heard it as well and looked away in pain as Elizabeth continued.

"That evening, we had no intention of encountering you. I think if we had intended to contact you, we would have gone at a more reasonable hour. It was purely—" she stopped, noticing the expression on the girl's face. "Yes?"

"You said 'we.' You were both in the carriage? How?"

Elizabeth and Erik exchanged glances. Her expression was one of slight amusement. His, though concealed by the mask, might have been one of utter dread. What would Christine think of that?

"Yes. I admit it may have been a silly idea as I look back upon it. At the time I thought perhaps it would cheer him some. Sadly, it had rather the opposite effect on you both."

Christine's mouth was open in absolute shock. Erik carefully revised his opinion on surprises—_some_times _some_ women liked to be surprised. This was not one of those times. Or perhaps not one of those women. Where had he gotten the idea they liked surprises, anyway?

"I know what I did," she said slowly. "What did you do, Erik?" Was this what led him to Elizabeth's hotel room? When had he fallen ill? Should she blame herself?

When he did not answer, Elizabeth looked at him questioningly. He shrugged, and she answered for him, leaving out the majority of the details. "There was quiet a lot of heart-wrenching music from behind closed doors," she said. This much, she expected, Christine would have been able to surmise on her own considering how she'd known him.

"_Don Juan_," Christine whispered in awe. Had this woman been _in the cellars_? Indeed, _how long_ had she been around? Christine looked from Erik to Elizabeth and back again, an look Erik could not quite place upon her face. She looked most distressed. But what was that peculiar expression? It was not anger, nor fear, but it was unpleasant. It was not disgust... Perhaps jealousy?

Oh, this was a bitter irony indeed, he thought. That Christine could possibly feel envy that poor hideous Erik had after all those years of loneliness managed one single carriage ride with a woman after she had shunned him and abandoned him and played her little engagement game with that boy right in front of his face! She had no idea what it was like to turn one's self inside out with jealousy—and yet by the contortion of her face at present, perhaps she was now learning. In the deepest recesses of his mind, Erik found a part of himself that savored both the idea that someone could be jealous over him and that there was some poetic justice to the whole terrible tragic situation. It was little consolation, but it was some nevertheless.

"Christine," Elizabeth interrupted. "I can understand that this surprises you some as it seems unlikely that a closed opera house is a good venue for making new acquaintances. Nevertheless, I have told you before I am Erik's friend. Perhaps now you see that this is true?"

"Yes," she stammered. "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit surprised, that's all." She glanced at Erik. "Sorry. I don't mean to say I'm surprised you have friends—"

"Yes you do," he said softly, but without anger. Without any emotion whatsoever. He seemed far away.

"I just mean, if you could understand my fear upon suddenly seeing you at my window after you sent me away..."

"My point, Christine, is that I believe you are entirely safe from Erik. Is this correct, Erik?"

Erik's eyes were dark and foreboding, but Elizabeth spoke his name as she reached over and touched him on the arm, and his countenance changed. His eyes became softer and he seemed suddenly gentle. Christine stared at the older woman, enchanted. She wanted to ask, "How did you do that?" but knew it would be impolite. Further, she wasn't sure she had actually seen what she thought she had; if Elizabeth could calm Erik with a touch it was surely something extraordinary. None of the three realized it at the moment, but Christine had suddenly come to view Elizabeth in awe—the way one regards a lion tamer. Sadly, she still had not truly realized Erik's humanity. He was simply a new kind of animal to her—one that could be tamed.

Erik fixed his eyes upon Elizabeth. He could not look at Christine. "I would never—_could _never—hurt her. That much has _not_ changed."

Elizabeth looked back at him. "Tell _her_."

"Oh, Christine!" he whispered without looking at her. "How is it you do not come to understand this? Erik could never harm you!"

She nodded her head quickly, her lips pressed tightly together to suppress her rising tears.

"Oh, Christine, you were always such a good girl," he said. "I am so sorry!" He was near tears as well but he managed to continue. "Please don't cry, Christine. It gives me so much pain to see you cry. How can you doubt me, Christine. I could never hurt you..."

They were both crying now, and Elizabeth passed a hand over her eyes as well, for one could not remain in the room with them and feel no emotion. But each was utterly separated from the other as though they dare not touch one another.

"Erik, I never wished to hurt you, but when you are angry you frighten me so much!" she sobbed.

"Oh, Christine! I am never angry with you!" he said, wiping furiously at the eyeholes of the mask with seemingly little success.

"Oh, but you were! You were! I'm sorry I made you angry, Erik! When I said I couldn't—" she stopped. She dared not repeat it now, for fear it would anger him today.

"Couldn't?" he asked her. "Couldn't what?"

"Oh, God, I can't say it," she gasped. "Please..."

But he knew. She could not _love him_. She could not _marry him_. And yet she had, in a sense. She had turned the scorpion... _But then he had released her_. "Oh Christine, I told you to marry _him_ when you pleased, did I not?"

"Erik! You didn't _mean_ it!"

Oh, but he did, and he meant it still more now, for though he loved her still, he looked at her and saw her as a child. He could ask her to be his wife, put a ring on her hand, perform a wedding ceremony, but he could never think of her as a grown woman. He could never touch more than her hand—would never kiss more than her forehead. Oh, what had he been thinking when he begged for her hand in marriage? And even as the question entered his mind the answer came to him. He had been so certain she was his only chance. She was the only woman in the world who had given him the slightest chance. Certainly it was in part because he had tricked her, but she was perhaps the only woman in the world who would have fallen for such a trick. She was lovely, yes. She was kind, true. And her voice—like that of an angel, but that was all. The rest was desperation. He was no longer crying now and sought to dry his eyes, but the mask was soaked through and most uncomfortable, yet he would not take it off. "Christine," he rasped, "Christine, believe me. You are entirely free." She cried still harder.

Elizabeth rose and stood between them first taking Christine's hand, then Erik's she gently tugged them towards one another and they managed to get to their feet clumsily and embrace. She put her face against his chest and let him wrap his arms around her slender body. He stared at Elizabeth with wide eyes as she carefully backed away. He absently stroked Christine's hair with one hand until she ceased sobbing. Eventually, they all sat down again, much quieter and far less tense. Erik excused himself to change his mask, and Christine and Elizabeth looked exhaustedly at one another.

"I would not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes," Christine said. "He is changed entirely."

"Not so entirely," Elizabeth mused, but she was pleased. She imagined that life could go on now and return to something like normalcy for everyone involved. When she said "I think we should do this again sometime," she could not have expected what would occur as a result.

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Speculations? You know I want to know what YOU think will happen as a result... Post a review and let me know!


	46. Chapter 46: Tea & Treasures

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note****:** This chapter was a royal struggle. If it seems a bit weak, that's why. Any suggestions are appreciate.

**Warning:** Tomorrow there might not be a chapter. Unless a revelation and a lot of time hit me. Tuesday, same deal. Wednesday's not looking good either. Usually, a writer wouldn't feel the need to explain, but I'm pretty committed to one of these short mini-chapter things I do at least once a day.

**Redemption:** The GOOD news is that my husband's business trip is coming up, and we always travel together. This means hours and hours on a plane (with my laptop! And a bunch of Phantom books! Wow!). It also means hours and hours in a hotel room with the laptop while he's in the seminar because I positively WILL NOT explore LA without him. And today he bought a cellular modem card with an unlimited plan... Awww... he's so sweet. I bet he was thinking of y'all the whole time! (Yeah, right! Not! He's SO jealous of y'all!)

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Christine returned the following week for tea. This time, Erik was prepared for her entrance and managed to greet her appropriately. He rose from his chair, walked the few paces to the door and extended his hand. Neither he nor Elizabeth would ever admit to anyone how they had rehearsed it time and again the preceding week, and to her credit, Christine managed to accept his hand without cringing in the least; she let him kiss—or pantomime a kiss, for he still wore the mask—the back of hers before he led her to the settee.

Christine was better prepared as well this time and carefully asked Erik gentle questions about his health, assuring him that she was asking only out of concern for him. He had of course by now entirely regained his strength, but was prisoner to a lingering fear that perhaps there had been some permanent damage done to his lungs. He rather suspected it would affect his breath support more than his range, but he would not—could not—test this terrifying theory until he could be absolutely assured that no one was around to hear, for it he was right and there was damage, it would be most distressing and would attract the attention of Elizabeth, while even if he was wrong he risked the possibility that someone would overhear and come to investigate who would be singing _like that_ in a common ordinary home on the outskirts of town. So he told no one of his fears. Not Christine, who most certainly would have understood, nor Elizabeth who would most certainly have worried and then attempted some desperate (and likely painful) intended remedy. So when Christine asked whether it might be possible that they sing together again someday, he was non-committal going only so far as to say that he was rather tired and not feeling in the mood at all today. Ironically, the idea of Erik _not being in the mood to sing _worried her far more than the truth would have, but she said nothing, for she did not wish to upset him.

He carefully avoided the topic of her impending marriage for he feared it might upset them both. She avoided mentioning the vacant uselessness of the beloved Opera for the same reasons, and so the conversation seemed to revolve around nothing: the weather today, the weather yesterday and the possibilities for the weather tomorrow, the loveliness of Christine's dress and who had made it, the comfort of the settee, the time of day, the quietness of the street on which the house was located, preferences such as coffee or tea, whether tea was better served with or without sugar...

As the conversation grew more and more casual, Elizabeth dared to excuse herself to the kitchen leaving the pair alone for a few moments. She'd had it planned, actually. If emotions had run high, she'd have asked Christine to help her with the tea to separate them briefly, but the two seemed to be handling the situation rather well, if not entirely comfortably. Or at least no one was sobbing yet anyway.

As soon as she exited, Christine dropped her previous line of conversation and quickly asked, "What exactly is between you two, Erik?"

Erik stared at her in stunned silence for a moment then replied, "Why, nothing at all, really, except that at last I have a friend." It was a wondrous thing, really, to have a friend, so he hadn't bothered to consider the fact that she was a woman, rather close to his own age, and apparently infinitely fond of him.

Could he really be so naive? Erik, who had so relentless pursued her, begging her to be his wife? Erik, who had lamented never having been permitted to kiss a woman? Erik, who had repeatedly said that all he wanted to was to have a wife whom he could entertain and take out on Sundays? "Erik, haven't you noticed?" Christine breathed.

Oh, what terrible thing could there have been that he had not noticed? He made a questioning gesture with his hands, something he'd learned—or more accurately something he'd remembered from long ago—that he must do in conversation as others used their facial expressions.

"Oh, Erik! Can you not see that the woman is _in love with you_?"

"Please Christine," he said calmly, though he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks behind the mask. "Let us not be ridiculous."

"But Erik!" she cried, and then fell silent again as she heard the door to the parlor open again behind her as Elizabeth entered with a tray laid out for tea. They both fell silent. _Uncomfortably_ silent.

Elizabeth looked from face to mask. "What's going on?" she asked setting down the tea tray.

"We were just talking about friends," Christine said vaguely. "I was saying I thought it was wonderful, you know, that Erik has you." She hoped Elizabeth would reveal whether that was all there was to the relationship or not, but instead she sidestepped.

"He needs more than one," she said. "Or even two." She looked Christine in the eyes and Christine was suddenly not certain she could handle such a responsibility. What would it entail? What would Raoul say? But then, perhaps he would give her voice lessons again. In her present position, she could hardly say no. But Elizabeth had said even two was not enough.

Slowly they both turned their faces toward Erik, who glared at Elizabeth heavily.

"Or we can discuss that another time," she said softly and moved toward the kitchen again.

"How can you not see it, Erik?" Christine resumed as the door swung closed behind Elizabeth.

"I am sure I am more of a curiosity," he replied carefully. "You would understand if you knew her taste in books."

Christine narrowed her eyes and peered at him carefully. Of course he didn't know. How would he possibly know the look of love when he saw it if he had _never seen it before_? She felt something break within her and she almost dared to reach toward him, but not quite. "You really have no idea!" she exclaimed as Elizabeth entered again, this time with the tea_pot_, which she had not been able to balance on the tray previously.

Elizabeth perched on her chair and began to pour the tea, which Erik, as usual, declined. Something would have to be done about the mask, she thought. If he wouldn't go about without it, perhaps it could be altered enough that he could eat and drink properly, not that he ever ate or drank much unless obliged anyway... Elizabeth looked back and forth between them again as she served the tea. What had transpired in the brief moment it took her to pick up the teapot? Had Christine dared to push the issue of inviting more people to tea?

"Who has no idea of what?" she asked, picking up on the only line she'd heard spoken.

Erik looked sullen. Christine began, rapidly fabricating a believable line "about my... upcoming... marriage. It's a difficult subject between us, you know." She twisted her hands in her lap. Erik's eyes glowed faintly. Of all the lies she could have told, she had to choose _that_ to bring up now? He did have to admit, however, that it was perhaps the most believable reason for their sudden silence, for now he had absolutely nothing at all to say.

"Ye-es," Elizabeth replied, slowly, worriedly glancing to Erik, then back to Christine.

"I do not wish to speak of this upcoming affair," Erik responded. "It is true she is free to do as she pleases, but I wish not to hear of it nor to speak of it."

"Why ever not?" Christine said, no longer lying to cover her tracks but now fully indignant. She realized, too late, that her question betrayed what she had confided to Erik. If she did not suspect he would not be alone, it would have made perfect sense that he did not want to hear of it. Still, the card had been played. She could not take it back now.

He played along. (Or did he?) "You are free, Christine. Free to throw your life away on this boy if you wish. But I do not have to approve of it. It is true that I could never have married you, but that does not mean that I do not think you could do better than him."

"Better than a Chagny?" And then she realized— "What do you mean you could never have married me?" She was indignant. "You begged me!"

"Better than that particular Chagny, yes. And I meant only that I could not have done that to you," he lied. He would have to be more careful. He had perhaps revealed more to her in these two conversations than he had in their time at the Opera. "Surely you can do better than either of us."

Both women seemed to accept this somehow, though he feared he did not sound convincing in the least. He was, actually, rather a bad liar, despite what people seemed to think. He had not had much practice—honest or dishonest—at discourse with people over the years.

"He is the _only_ male Chagny left alive at this point, Erik," Christine said pointedly "And I'll not ask you what happened to the other one as I do not think I could bear to hear it. As to Raoul himself, he is not so bad. Not nearly so bad as you think. I think that once you meet him you'll rather like him after all."

"Surely you're joking." His eyes were dark and sinister, but it was not a threat. He was not pleased, but Elizabeth felt quite encouraged by the situation nevertheless. It was an argument, yes, but a _normal_ argument. Erik had not grabbed anyone by the hair, nor had he fallen to the floor and scorned himself. It was progress.

"I don't think we need to consider a meeting between Erik and the Comte right now," she interjected quickly. They both seemed to startle as they looked at her, rather as though they had forgotten her presence.

"You're right. We don't." Christine twisted her hands nervously again, and Elizabeth noticed once again the ring on her hand. "Erik," she said softly, looking at him meaningfully, trying to send him a signal with her eyes. "I've been meaning to talk to you about this." She twisted the ring free from her finger and held it up. "Thankfully, there's no reason to bury you at present." She gave a forced laugh. "But I feel I should return this anyway. I don't really feel I deserve it. Perhaps you might accept it back early?" She held it out to him. "_I think you may find yourself needing it_," she said deliberately. A curious silence passed between them, something Elizabeth did not—could not—understand. They shared some secret then. How easily he accepted the ring. After all it had come to symbolize. So peculiar.

And when she left, he sat motionless in the chair so long that Elizabeth thought he had fallen asleep. But when she sat across from him and looked, his eyes were wide and staring. He spoke to her, but distantly. "There are things of hers I should return as well," he said without meeting her eyes. "I must go and get them. I will leave when it is dark."

"May I join you?"

"It would be best if I went alone."

"I will worry until you return."

"I had survived quite a long time before I met you."

"Recall the state in which I found you."

"So I'll be careful."

She knew better than to argue. His voice had an edge to it that suggested more than she could surmise. She expected she'd been keeping too close an eye on him since her return to the Opera cellar upon receipt of his strange letter. Now that the was—himself?—again she would have to get used to him all over again. She wondered what he was really like, under the sorrow and loneliness. She hoped she would still be fond of whomever emerged.

When Erik returned to the house after an extended absence he carried a small box under one arm. He swept through the parlor without looking to see whether Elizabeth was in it or not. He entered the room in which he slept—he never could come to call it _his_ room—and turned the key in the lock. Placing the box of treasure on the bureau, he turned to the quilt-draped mirror, lit a lamp and watched the light dance across the patterns of the quilt. He fingered the stitching as he debated whether to uncover the mirror or not. Yes, why not? He repeated his ritual. First the quilt. Then the mask. Then the eyelids, slowly opening. A horrid sight. A deep breath. But it is not _so_ bad... It was perhaps slightly worse by the flickering orange flames of the oil lamp that it had been by the sunlight muted by heavy curtains. The dancing of the firelight upon his grotesque features seemed to make his face squirm and writhe. This must be more akin to what Christine saw beneath the Opera. He had been there for years without a mirror before he had known her, before she had torn off the mask; he had not seen what she had seen until now. He left the quilt where he had lain it upon the bed, picked up the box he had reacquired and sat upon the bed with it in his lap. There was a chair here, but the bed was a better vantage point; it afforded him a better view of the mirror. He opened the box with steady hands, but as his eyes fell upon what was inside, they began to tremble slightly.

He lifted out a pair of ladies gloves and held one to his cheek. Ah, it was soft! So soft. How he used to dream that someday a hand inside that glove might caress his cheek this way! Yet how he knew at the same time that it could never be. He pressed the glove against his face. Perhaps her scent still lingered upon it. Perhaps if he closed his eyes he could feel her hands, hear her voice. The gloves had seemed almost magic then. He open his eyes and glanced in the mirror. It looked ridiculously absurd. The sight of any man—let alone one of his age and with his deformities!—fawning over a pair of ladies gloves in this way! Yet this was how he had spent countless evenings once. He gently laid the gloves aside with the reverence an archeologist might show for the god of an ancient people--not something to be worshiped, but something to be respected for its having once been worshiped.

A shoe buckle. One. Not a pair. And this one was broken, which was, perhaps, why it had been left behind. Why had he not thought of that before? Why had he been saving a broken shoe buckle? But he knew. He recalled it from that night he had first fallen at her feet and kissed them. He kissed it now. It was just cold metal. He looked at it curiously and placed it aside.

Two small folded pieces of cloth turned out to be pocket handkerchiefs. They had never been quite as magical as the gloves, but they were convenient for placing in a pocket as a constant reminder of her presence above him. It hardly seemed appropriate now. He placed them aside after only a moment. The rest was all letters. There were quite a lot of letters. He looked at the writing without reading the words. Her writing was so lovely. Not at all like his inferior hand. He pressed the stack of letters to his chest and stroked them fondly. He glanced at the mirror. Pathetic.

Putting everything back into the box hastily, he closed the lid and snapped the latch. He eyed the box as though it were enchanted and could not be trusted. Apparently, nothing and no one could be trusted, as he had long suspected, for when he had arrived at the home of the Persian he had learned something _most_ disturbing.

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Oh no! What terribly disturbing thing has Erik learned now? And more importantly, what did you think of this chapter? I felt like the beginning was a little weak because I was struggling with a transition, but the ending seemed to come together quite nicely if I do say so myself. Of course, that's because I know what's going to happen next... which brings us back to what disturbing thing has Erik learned? That's for me to know and you to find out. Reviews were sparse last chapter and I imagine that's because you were all off celebrating with your mommies, right? Hope it was wonderful for all of you--those of you who ARE moms and those of you who HAVE moms. Couldn't quite force myself to write a mother's day story for you, but if anyone out there is willing, maybe it could be tastefully done. Not MY forte though... Anyway... sorry for the long rambling comment... Please review. Love you all!

Hey--Why doesn't anyone review anymore? (Or rather, why only those same couple of people who always review... It's because there wasn't a big revelation this chapter, wasn't it? Well... I can't post again until Friday, so I guess I'll just have to settle for no more reviews until then...) :sob!:


	47. Chapter 47: The Persian

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: At long last, here it is, Chapter 47. I do hope you all will review, as I've SO missed your comments and all of you. I'd like to put the next chapter up tomorrow so we can move along to the really good stuff, but the trouble is that my annoying real life keeps expecting me to actually take part in it. How frustrating! Really!

* * *

Across town in a tiny flat on Rue de Rivoli, a dark skinned man sat staring into the fire and brooding. Over the course of the past two weeks, his simple quiet life had turned upside down entirely, again. Life had been quiet since the death of the Opera Ghost just over two and a half months ago. It had, indeed, been quiet since a few weeks before that, even, when Erik departed that last night.

_He'd stood at his door, not quite knowing what to say as Darius helped his peculiar guest down the steps and into the carriage. He had gone to the window and watched the carriage pull away, heading in the direction of the Opera. The visit had been a rather short one. Erik had had come to his door less than half an hour before and demanded to see him. Darius attempted to send him away; he had refused to go, but without raising his voice, without threatening in the least. The fact that he had refused to show his face, that he had demanded to see him and would not leave sounded exactly like Erik, but the fact that he had shown no violence did not. But at last, when Erik entered the room in a posture that suggested the action sapped all this strength and leaned heavily against the wall, the Persian understood. Erik was dying. It made his desire to determine what had been done with Christine and Raoul still more urgent. He must learn if they were alive or dead before the murderous monster died taking with him all hope of their discovery. But he had been so difficult that evening!_

_He was always difficult, but usually by his own device. Usually, he was full of lies, half-truths, deceptions and trickery. That night, however, he had been too exhausted, too disoriented, too distracted to provide much information of value. The Persian had managed to glean that Christine and the vicomte—who was to become comte now that his brother's body had been found, drowned, on the Rue Scribe side—were alive. Erik insisted that he himself was dying. It did appear that he was, though the thought of dying of love seemed grossly exaggerated. Erik had never been a healthy man, physically or mentally, and he seemed far worse that night. The Persian had had no doubts that he was in the presence of a dying man. It made it harder to remain detached, harder to question him with the authoritative tone that, once he had assumed it in his role of chief of police in Persia, had never left him until that night. When he grasped Erik by the arm and shook him and the latter made no move to retaliate, he fully realized what he had known all along. The man he had followed all these years, though in many ways horrible, was just a man like anyone else. Yes, he had known it all along. It was easily forgotten when he thought of the tortures and the deaths that had taken place at his hands, but it was sometimes remembered during conversations that had seemed almost normal at times—conversations in which the other sometimes expressed regret over the atrocities and sometimes expressed a mere desire to forget they had occurred._

_And then he had done the most singularly spectacular thing: he had cried. It was the most heartwrenching thing in the world to behold for Erik had, in all the years they had known one another not shown much emotion beyond anger. While the daroga knew him to be merely a man, he still retained the demeanor or something alternately more or less than a man. At times he had been a monster and at times a demigod, but never a human being subject to the suffering of the grief of love and loss like this before. He covered his masked face with his hands and sobbed heavily into them without reservation and apparently without embarrassment. Impending death seemed to give him the need to unburden himself to someone and the Persian felt some dubious honor in having been selected. Anyone's dying would be sad, yes, but the fact that in all the world the only soul to whom poor Erik had to confess in the end was the man who had followed him all these years was particularly moving. The Persian, listening to his wrenched sobbing, was suddenly overcome with emotion. He couldn't speak. He asked him nothing. All these years they had known each other, all the years they had played this game of cat and mouse, alternately threatening one another and then saving one another, the Persian had not really paused to consider the humanity of the monster until that last night. The last time he ever saw him alive. _

_Knowing then the humanity of the poor creature that collapsed into his parlor chair and sobbed until he choked, the Persian felt he should make some show of friendly affection or some gesture of compassion for the dying man, yet he found his throat utterly silent. He said not a word as he accompanied him to the door, gestured to Darius, then returned to the window from which the he stared out watching his nearly crippled acquaintance leaning heavily upon his servant._

_Throughout the three weeks that immediately followed, he often thought of going to the Opera to find Erik. It seemed to him that to die alone was perhaps the saddest thing on earth, yet each time he resolved to go, he persuaded himself not to before Darius could even managed to secure a carriage. He was in no danger, surely, but the other would perhaps not forgive his intrusion. He was torn between his belief that it would be wrong to allow someone to die alone and his conflicting belief that it was necessary to obey the wishes of the dying. Three weeks later when the package arrived containing Erik's treasures, he had felt a sense of relief that his conscience would no longer be at war with itself over whether to intervene or not. Erik was dead. _

_He'd sent word to Raoul as he'd promised and published a simple notice in the Epoque. His obligation was finished._

_Life had continued in a comfortably dull way since that time. He enjoyed a quiet if modest retirement in his flat, with Darius coming and going at his request with any necessities. If his life had been riddled with stress as he attempted to prevent Erik from harming anyone and at the same time keep the world from harming Erik, he now suffered from absolute boredom, yet he did not complain. He felt he deserved the rest._

_He had, upon receipt, opened the small box Erik had sent him. It contained letters from Christine to Raoul, which he wondered idly whether he should retain or present to the young couple. It was no matter. He had time; he could contact them after their wedding, perhaps. Also in the box were a few belongings of Christine's which Erik had retained—a pair of her gloves, one of her shoe buckles, and two pocket handkerchiefs. It was heartrending, really, that he had considered these his treasures. It revealed another side of him his old acquaintance had not really known. He was really little more than a child emotionally, throwing fits when he did not get his way, craving affection in its simplest of forms, and apparently, saving small items that the majority of the adult world would have considered rubbish. It shed a tragic light on the whole love affair. Fortunately, the whole mess was over, and Persian put the box on a high shelf and resolved not to think on it at length._

But over the course of these past two weeks he had come to realized that the tragic tale could not possibly end so simply, as he had hoped. No, first he had been visited by a woman. She was a strange, dark character, almost a female Erik in her depressing airs, her dark dress and her insistence upon being as cryptic as possible about her identity and the reasons for her visit. She revealed only her first name—Elizabeth—and simply stated that she had been told he had information relating to the Opera tragedy and might know the surname of the individual upon which the majority of the blame had been lain, a poor unfortunate whose first name was Erik.

The Persian hesitated. Erik's secrets were no one but Erik's, and it was best never to speak of them. Yet Erik was dead. The proof was in the box of treasures with which he never would have parted until death was imminent. There couldn't be much harm in telling the secrets of a dead man, could there? And he had intended to disclose those secrets once anyway, hadn't it? He had written down everything that had occurred. The police showed no interest, and he planned to present it to the press instead when suddenly Erik himself had appeared that night, dying and sobbing. The Persian had not turned over the story to the press once he was assured that neither Ms. Daae nor Raoul de Chagny had been murdered. But he had not promised to keep the secret any longer, either. Still, he hesitated. During the three months since he had last seen Erik, he had come to feel more fondly for the man he had tracked all those years. Now that he was dead, it was somehow easy to forget the terrifying aspects of him and remember only that last dreadful meeting when he had sat and cried in the parlor. It felt like betraying a friend, and yet, it was only a name—a single word. What harm could there be?

In the end, he had revealed much more, for once he had uttered the name, he felt a sense of release at no longer having to keep secrets, and the strange woman had not stood to go and instead sat, silent and unmoving but for the nodding of her head at appropriate intervals. When she was gone, he felt as if he'd encountered a ghost and, as Darius had not been present and he'd answered the door himself, he even wondered if he had perhaps dreamed the entire incident in order to unburden his mind subconsciously. It was hardly a betrayal after all, if he'd revealed the information only to another part of his own mind. He thus consoled himself about the event, until a week later, when the other guest arrived. There could be no question but that this one had actually been there.

Darius had entered with a look of consternation on his face and stated that a visitor had arrived who refused to give his name, would not show his face and declared simply that he did not intend to leave the place until he had spoken to the daroga. As the feeling of déjà vu washed over The Persian he wondered idly whether he was dreaming again and why Erik was suddenly so in the forefront of his mind as to be dreamed of so often. He ordered Darius to show the man in, but this was where the similarity to the previous encounter ceased.

The man who entered wore a mask exactly like Erik's and was extremely thin, but there the similarities ended. This man appeared far taller than he remembered Erik, and he walked with a straightness to his shoulders that Erik had not demonstrated in years, if ever. The Persian's first thought was that this was some impostor coming to play a joke of some kind on him, though he could not suspect who would know enough of Erik to do so save the Comte de Changy, who clearly would not have found such a trick amusing in the slightest. He rose, still wondering who the man was and was surprised when a bony hand clasped his in greeting and a melodious voice greeting him "Daroga, old friend! Are you surprised to see me?" There was no mistaking that voice. It was the voice of Erik. But when had Erik ever shaken his hand or greeted him in such a mannerly way? Indeed, he must be dreaming. And has he stood there attempting to recover his wits Erik's voice spoke again. "Aren't you going to ask me to come inside and sit down? I will understand, of course, but I would not expect you to be one to forget your manners."

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Daroga," Erik continued as he settled comfortably into the same chair into which he had collapsed three months ago. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!" and he chuckled at his own poor joke. "I've come to reclaim my belongings, Daroga," he said "as it appears that I sent them prematurely."

"Erik! You're alive," the Persian finally managed to utter.

Erik seemed to consider this as he glanced down at himself, raising his skeletal hands slightly and observing them carefully, turning them over to look at first the palms, then the backs, then the palms again.

"Indeed," he said. "I do not need you to tell me this. Though one can hardly tell by looking, I think that I would have noticed if I was not."

"Stop this impertinence, Erik! Tell me how you came to recover after—" he paused "After the way you left here last time."

"Ah. That is another one of Erik's secrets" he said darkly. I know how you feel about _those_."

He could not hide his annoyance. "Yes, yes. Another one of your secrets. Fine then, your secrets are yours. All you want then is what you sent me?" He stood and went to the bookshelf, quickly retrieving the small box from the top shelf and shoving it unceremoniously at his guest. "There you are then. Anything more?"

"I will not trouble you if you do not wish to visit with me," he said, though he did not rise. It is something I am used to—people not wishing to visit with me, though as of late…" he trailed off, considering that it was no longer entirely true.

"Of course I wish to visit with you. Stop being difficult!"

"You do?" he said querulously. "Why, Daroga! One would never suspect it!"

Unable to contain either his curiosity or his annoyance any longer, he blurted "For pity's sake, Erik, how did you come to be here and has it anything to do with that woman who was here last week?"

Erik's eyes were suddenly dark. "What woman?" he asked.

"If that's your response, then I suppose the answer is no."

"I asked you a question, Daroga," Erik said quietly, turning his attention to the box. "It would be wise to respond truthfully to it." He opened the latch thoughtfully.

"Is that a threat?"

"You answer a question with a question. I hardly have time for such nonsense." He was glancing inside and speaking distractedly now.

"I asked you a question as well, before you asked me anything. I might point out _you_ answered _me_ with a question _first_."

Erik snapped the box shut as though something inside had frightened him. He latched it hastily and replied, "Ah. So you've caught me. You win. Now tell me what woman of whom you speak." He already knew it could not be Christine. The Persian knew her by name and would speak of her by name. There could be no other woman, for no other woman knew he was alive, save Elizabeth. No other women knew him at all, actually, and regardless of whether he was alive or dead, those who had heard of him likely had no reason at all to inquire of him. Save Elizabeth. But she did not know the Persian. That made this a very strange occurrence indeed.

The other still declined to answer. "You've not yet told me how you've come to recover, what you're doing here, what this has to do—."

"With the woman. Yes. Now if you will kindly tell me what woman, I will certainly share with you whether my visit in any way involves her, though I can't understand why I need a reason to visit a dear old friend such as you…"

A dear old friend, the other thought. A dear old friend indeed. One who nearly killed me!

As though reading his thoughts Erik added "You simply dropped into my home uninvited. Surely I have a right to defend my self and property, have I not? I don't think our little mishap in the forest means we are not friends any longer… but tell me. Who is this woman of whom you speak? Her name is not Elizabeth, by any chance, is it?"

"Erik, what have you done now?" the dark-skinned man exclaimed by way of response, and Erik chuckled, having received the answer to his question from the startled expression on the other's face.

"She is quite safe, Daroga. I have not harmed her in the least if that is what you are suggesting. As a matter of fact, I am quite changed, you know. I do not do such things anymore."

"I have heard that at least once before, I think. I seem to recall having heard that you were kind and gentle as Christine loved you, and shortly thereafter the vicomte and I were in the torture chamber and the young lady chained up!"

Erik sighed with seemingly infinite patience. "I have told you this before, Daroga. Honestly, you should visit with a physician before your memory gets much worse. You dropped into my home of your own accord bringing the then-vicomte with you. Christine was bound _only_ to protect her from herself, and not with chains. As to your other questions, if you must know, I came here to invite you to tea one afternoon next week, but as it seems you cannot possibly accept that I have changed in the time since you knew me, it seems unlikely you would wish to drink tea with the monster you seem to still believe I am. I will relieve you of my presence, then," and he stood to go, cradling the box in his arms gently as a parent might hold a child.

"Erik, wait," the Persian had called uselessly as Erik sauntered toward the door on his own. "Erik, what of the woman?" he cried out again, pursuing him down the hallway.

"Daroga, in a strange sort of irony, it is the woman who keeps me captive this time," he responded, "and I must go before she discovers my absence and comes to retrieve me." There. That should leave the man wondering for quite some time, he thought as he opened the door and let himself out. And it wasn't far from the truth, he reflected. He hadn't actually _lied_ to him.

The Persian glared after him. Was he smiling behind that horrid mask? Oh! He was infuriating. He almost wished he had been dead after all. _Almost_.

He returned to his parlor and sat staring into the fire and contemplating the meaning of all that had occurred. He hadn't even a moment to consider whether he should rejoice that someone he thought had died was still living, he was so overcome with questions.

The woman had not seemed to be in distress, but that was over a week ago. There was no guarantee she was still safe. He wondered if he should attempt to inquire of her. Unfortunately, she had given him only her first name. How peculiar! Still, if he wanted to locate her, he could probably do so. He had, after all, managed to track Erik all those years in spite of Erik's ability to cover his tracks, disguise himself, and set traps. But Erik said the woman kept _him_ prisoner. Surely he'd been merely toying with his mind, hadn't he?

The woman hadn't even mentioned the fact that Erik was alive when she'd visited. She had asked for only one thing: a last name. Then she had been content to sit and listen to whatever he wished to say, and as he thought back upon it, he wished he'd said nothing at all, for now he could not remember all that he had said and he wondered it was to be used against Erik. He felt a sudden pang of guilt; he would be responsible if the information he provided was used for evil instead of for good. Why had he simply trusted her? All these years he had protected Erik—yes, protected him, despite what Erik himself might say. He had protected him not only from those who sought to find him out and learn his secrets, but he had also protected him from himself, from doing more damage than he had already done, from losing his _urvan_, his soul, if indeed, it turned out he had one. Now it seemed perhaps he had handed him over to some unknown for whatever consequences might lay in store.

Erik himself had seemed different. He was more erect, more polite, and more pleasant. Had he actually _shaken his hand_ in greeting? That was not at all like the Erik he remembered. He'd appeared to be in relatively good health, for Erik anyway. Strange, considering he was dying just three months ago. And while he had used an ominous tone when he demanded the woman's name, he had not become violent, had not lost control. No, he had not done anything terrible. Or rather, he hadn't done anything terrible that was readily apparent, the Persian reminded himself. Just because he could not tell immediately did not mean he hadn't done anything. After all, he'd smiled too easily, laughed too easily. Surely something was amiss. What atrocities had he been responsible for in the time since they had lost touch? What acts of evil had he committed? And what was the Persian's responsibility in it, if any? He had long considered it his responsibility to prevent as much harm as he could, especially where Erik was concerned as he was generally the only one capable of suspecting what it was Erik was contemplating. In this case, however, and with three month's lack of contact, he had no idea.

What of the remark about joining him for tea? Certainly it was simply a snide remark, was it not? Erik did not engage in social engagements such as tea, nor could the daroga recall ever have seen Erik drink tea. As a matter of fact, as he thought back, it was difficult to remember Erik eating or drinking anything. Had the invitation been a serious one, though, perhaps he would have accepted, even if only to make sure that no one had been harmed.

It had been peculiar indeed to have a supposed deadman arrive and request his belongings back. But what could he possibly be planning to do with the letters and relics he had saved and then relinquished? Did he plan to return to the cellars and resume his former life? As no one attended the Opera at present, it seemed unlikely he would find much amusement there. Where else could he go? And how did these memories of Christine figure into that equation? What would he do with them? Surely, he would pursue her again now! Hadn't she married already, in fact?

While the Persian sat gazing into the fire and contemplating, Erik walked the short distance to the end of the block where he'd arranged to meet his carriage. On the way back to the house he fought the urge to open the box again. He would wait until he had appropriate amount of time and privacy before he looked upon those treasures again.

In the meantime, he worried what reason could Elizabeth possibly have to visit the daroga and what terrible things might come about as a result. The knowledge that she had gone behind his back filled him with a sick dread though he could not at first determine why. Then, suddenly the answer washed over him and with it a wave of nausea: he had finally learned to trust her, and she had immediately betrayed that trust.

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**Final note:** Please put something in a review for me if you can spare a minute or two. I hope the stuff I'm reading isn't impacting the stuff I'm writing in a way I didn't intend. True, Erik is much more subdued this chapter… but is that a result of tea with Christine having gone as it did? Or is it a result of your author accidentally contaminating her mind with other books? You tell me. We're still within the realms of believability, aren't we?


	48. Chapter 48: Relinquished

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Hey everyone! It's been fewer than 12 hours since my last post, but this "vacation" thing is a great idea. It's only 9:00 a.m. out here in California, so I'm going to post this chapter then go do my grad school work, then maybe read another one of those books that I hope doesn't influence me. Today's been a great day so far, as I ordered room service for the very first time ever today. (Is that sad that I haven't done that, or is that sort of normal? I was just telling Hot4Gerry last night that I'm probably a bit like Christine in that regard. Every little thing impresses me. It was SO exciting. And now I have both tea and coffee to last me the whole day! If my masters work goes rapidly (and I always like to make sure it does) I will be back with another chapter later today. (Unless I decide that posting multiple chapters in a day will get us to the end too quickly…)

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Erik was cryptic at best about the small box he had acquired from somewhere—he wouldn't say—the night before. He wouldn't open it and wouldn't say what's was inside. It would be seen when it was time. Elizabeth felt he must have some great treasure inside, though she couldn't even begin to imagine what.

Erik was also distant, but at the same time looking forward to having Christine for tea again. After a few days of impatience, he suggested Christine should visit more than once a week. Once the idea entered his head, he would speak of nothing else and even threatened to go out in broad daylight to arrange for her visit if Elizabeth wouldn't. It was a childish, silly side of Erik Elizabeth had never seen before, and if he hadn't been so enamored of Christine—and the box—she would have found it quite endearing. As it was, he was simply incorrigible.

He carried the box around with him but never opened it in Elizabeth's presence. From the way he handled it, she doubted he opened it when alone either; he touched it gingerly, as though it contained and exotic and dangerous pet from some far away land, and Elizabeth was made to remember Christine's story about the scorpion. No sounds, however, came from the box. When she could stand his antsy pacing no longer, Elizabeth sent for Christine.

When at last Christine did arrive Erik left the box upon the table for a moment to greet her, (in precisely the same manner he had a few days before—the way in which he'd practiced with Elizabeth for nearly a week) and that was the first he'd let the box out of his sight in the days since he'd collected it. He returned to it quickly, placing it upon his lap and his hands atop it, waiting to present whatever its contents were. Elizabeth sat nearby, and though she wore her mild, disinterested expression, she was desperately curious about the contents of the box and also feeling understandably left out. Erik had not said much to her other than to ask whether it was the day Christine would arrive, and Christine herself had not had the chance to say much more than hello before Erik dragged her away toward the box, sat her beside him and took it upon his lap. Elizabeth had the sensation of being an elderly grandmother watching two small children at play.

There was a reverence in Erik's mannerisms as he handled the box now, slowly opening the latch and pausing before lifting the lid. It gave Elizabeth the feeling he was about to reveal some great treasure, but she remembered his words before he had gone to get it: There are things of hers I should return as well, he had said. whether they were things that she had given him, things he had bought for her and not had the opportunity to give or things that she had merely left with him was not clear, but after his having made so much of it over the past few days if he produced anything less spectacular than the Resurrection it was going to be a disappointment.

Erik's eyes shone brightly as he lifted the first item—or pair of items—from the box. Before Elizabeth could even determine what it—or they—were, Christine had cried out in delight, "Erik! You found my gloves! I had been wondering what had become of them! Wherever did you find them?"

Erik looked away. _On your hands_, of course. He wouldn't admit he'd stolen them from her very fingers once when she had fainted into his arms, then tucked them away in his pocket to save for later. To remember her by, in case he might never see her again. It was too—well, it seemed somehow demented now, though at the moment it had been the sweetest and most natural thing to do.

He didn't have to answer her, though, for the question was forgotten as soon as it left her lips. The gloves were on her hands once more, and she was holding them in front of her, palms together and turning them this way and that. "Oh, thank you so much!" she said and she clapped her palms together twice like a small child. He smiled indulgently beneath the mask and reached into the box again and this time produced the handkerchiefs.

Elizabeth had the sensation of watching some strange ritual foreign ritual which became stranger still as Erik produced two pocket handkerchiefs and Christine frowned deeply. "Why did you have those," she asked. "I don't remember ever carrying those down…" she was confused. He was looking away again. He would never tell her how or where he had gotten those, but it was true she had never carried them down. Still perplexed she took them from him with both hands—still wearing the gloves. "Thank you," she said, and as he handed them to her with both his hands, hers touched his. She shivered a little and he pulled his hands away and looked into the box again to pull out the shoe buckle.

"Oh, Erik!" Christine exclaimed this time in an entirely different tone. "You needn't have saved _that_ for me. You see, it's broken. Right here." She took it from him, showed him what he already knew, and then returned it to his hand. He looked at it, stunned. She didn't want it. He was returning all her belongings, and she didn't want this. It was so lovely, he thought, though that was probably only because it had been hers. His smile faded at last, though the women could not see it.

"I can repair it for you," he said softly, then quickly added "if you wish."

She looked touched. She cocked her head to one side and sighed slightly. Then she sat up straight again. "But it would be useless," she said. "I've already discarded its mate."

Erik looked at the shoe buckle again. Useless. Of course. Deep down, hadn't he known that already? She'd already _discarded its mate_. He made no comment.

Although neither Erik nor Christine noticed it, Elizabeth was frowning deeply. Christine had returned to Erik a gold ring that she felt she "didn't deserve" that he had given her. Then he'd gone out to get things that belonged to Christine, and this is what he had come up with? He had given her jewelry and she had given him her used belongings? Not even that! He had apparently come by them accidentally—or not so accidentally, perhaps—and some of them were broken! Had she ever given him anything at all? True, she was not a wealthy girl, but there are gifts that can be given for no money. It seemed Erik had been given none. For once she was glad he wore the mask, for she didn't have to see Erik's face when Christine didn't accept the shoe buckle. A gold ring in exchange for a broken shoe buckle. It didn't seem right in the least. How did Erik not notice this? And she, Elizabeth, could never address it, for Erik would not hear anyone else speak out against Christine. How unnerving.

But the pair had progressed to the letters. They were on Christine's lap on top of the pocket handkerchiefs and she was shuffling through them with both hands—still wearing the gloves. "Erik," she said with consternation "These letters are to Raoul."

It occurred to Elizabeth that a letter was one of the things that a person could give another which cost nothing at all except time, and Christine had written only letters to Raoul. Oh, Erik, she thought desperately, why can you _not see_?

"Yes," he responded quietly. "You wrote them in my home. In your haste, you didn't take them with you."

"Ah." Her eyes were troubled as she looked over them.

"I didn't read them, Christine. I only admired your writing."

She gave him a peculiar look. _What does that look mean_ he wondered. "Thank you," she said almost curtly, folding the letters and placing them under the pocket handkerchiefs. She removed the gloves as well, folded them and placed them on her lap atop the pile. He offered her the box, and when she accepted he placed all the items carefully within it with a reverence that was lost upon Christine, but not upon Elizabeth. These items had been _cherished_. He had saved them since he sent Christine away. But Elizabeth had never seen them. He must have had them hidden away somewhere.

She spoke for the first time since Christine had arrived. "Then his is what you went home to get that evening, Erik?" she asked. When he turned his masked face to her, she could see the surprise through it, though she knew not why.

Then Christine spoke. "I wondered if you still lived there," she said, a tone of awe in her voice.

Erik wondered if she would try to visit him there, considered the additional dangers now that it was vacant, and shook his head quickly. "No, no. These are not from there. I received these last night from the Persian."

"The Persian! How queer! Whyever should the Persian have my gloves? And my letters?" she had evidently already forgotten the handkerchiefs and the shoe buckle. "I have never visited the Persian, nor—" she stopped, silenced by a look from Erik.

"I sent them to him, Christine, when I was sure I would die."

There was silence in the room at last as each considered the impact of his words. His last will and testament, of sorts. All that he cared for in the world. And Elizabeth remembered his words some three weeks earlier. "Find a way to save her," he had begged "and I will lay all my treasure at your feet." Treasure, indeed, Elizabeth thought to herself. If there had been any treasure to speak of, would it not have been willed away as well? Yet he hadn't gone to reclaim any monetary treasure. It saddened her deeply for she had hoped that he had the means to care for himself if only he could be convinced to do so. She remembered his words to her in the carriage: _Do not assume that everyone who chooses to live beneath the ground is destitute,_ he had said, and at the same moment she remembered it, a variation on a line from a Shakespearean play also entered her mind: _Methinks he doth protest too much_. It suddenly occurred to her that he had nothing at all. Perhaps this is why he clung to Christine, continued to live beneath the Opera, did nothing to reach his potential. He had nothing, and with nothing to start from, he could be nothing, for while it was sometimes possible for a poor man to become wealthy and sometimes possible for an ugly man to find love, it was not likely that a man who was both would find both. She felt a lump rise in her throat turned her eyes rapidly to the modest chandelier in the parlor. She had never examined it closely before, but she did so now, for she had long ago discovered that tears cannot fall when the eyes are turned upward.

It was fortuitous that she had declined all Erik's treasure, she thought. How fortunate that she had simply felt compelled to help him. She could only begin to imagine her disappointment had she operated with the idea of receiving monetary payment in reward and been presented with _this_. She adjusted her image of Erik and Christine. It was no longer as ludicrous as she had first thought. He was not necessarily worlds beyond her in maturity. Perhaps he was still more a child than she. It made her reconsider her surprise for him, for if this was his mentality, what could he possibly do with _that_? Worse still, if he were without a sous to his name, he would perhaps be insulted. Would very likely be insulted, considering his attitude toward wealth that night in the carriage. And yet at the same time, she was reassured that she had at least played one card right in asking Raoul about the Persian. She had long known that Erik did not trust anyone, not even her, so it had been a difficult choice to make, but she had apparently chosen correctly, for Erik had trusted the Persian with all that he treasured in the world. Certainly, then, Elizabeth could trust him with Erik.

When it was at last time for Christine to leave, Erik tried to accompany her to the door, carrying the box for her, but she stopped him saying that she needed to speak with Elizabeth alone. When she took the box from his cradling arms, it seemed that for a moment he hesitated to let go. He retreated in something rather like shock, went to his room and latched the door and listened through the wall. He could not, however, make out their exact words as Christine's tone obviously asked a question, and Elizabeth hesitatingly seemed to consent.

On the way home, Christine opened the box and noticed that Erik had surreptitiously placed the shoe buckle back inside. She rolled her eyes and discarded it.

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Final note: Should I go back to a chapter a day or less, even if I get ahead, so that you guys are not overwhelmed with too much to read and review? Or should I post as much as I have as frequently as I have to avoid the suspense? I can't decide. Need opinions.

Next chapter situation: Chapter 49 is finished and ready, but it's Saturday so I'm not sure whether folks with be reading or not. I'm thinking I'll post the next chapter when we hit 10 reviews or when it is tonight here in California, whichever comes first. Chapter 50 will take a bit of effort on my part, but I don't see any reason why it can't be done by tomorrow night... Does that work for y'all?


	49. Chapter 49: Loss for Words

**Standard Disclaimer**: _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Notes**: Hey everyone. Sorry this is late. My plan was to give everyone some time to get to chapter 48 and read (and review if you do that) it since there hadn't been many hits, and then I was going to post this one at 10 p.m. CA time. Unfortunately, I wasn't providing my own transportation last night, and we only left where we WERE at 10. Then, to make matters worse, it took us the better part of an hour to go ONE BLOCK. What is with L.A. traffic? I've heard it said that "Nobody walks in L.A. and it shows because the whole darn city was the Highland Avenue last night. I can tell you I was about to get out and walk. I got home at midnight. That's three on the east coast... so yeah... Sorry folks. TOTAL mistake.

Here's the chapter. I can't promise chapter 50 for tomorrow anymore because this fiasco put me a bit behind on something else I have to do for my masters degree, and my husband just informed me we have a DIRECT flight back... so I can't type the chapter in the air and then upload it during the layover. Can you believe we have a DIRECT flight? All these years I've never had a direct flight anywhere in my LIFE and today, when I finally try to make plans for the layover, THAT'S when I get one. Hot4Gerry, I'm starting to understand what you mean by "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all!" Sheesh!

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That night after his evening ritual with the mask and mirror, Erik lay awake, unmasked behind the locked door and stared through the darkness at the ceiling. At last, the matter of Christine had been lain to rest as he never before believed it could be without his death. She had returned his ring. He had given back everything he had taken from her. Somehow, without marrying her, he had been freed from his desperate hunger for her. He could return to life as it was before her! Oh, at last, to no longer suffer the pangs of love! He should be happy, no? But he was not. He was no longer dying of love, no. He no longer _suffered_. He was finally free again—perhaps more free than he had ever been before, because the ordeal with Christine had prompted him to create another mask, and as soon as he could get to the Opera to retrieve it, he would appear to be like everyone else at last! So why wasn't he elated?

Instead he felt mostly rather dull and numb on the surface with an undercurrent of something like embarrassment at both Christine's and Elizabeth's reactions to his gifts to Christine. No, they weren't normal gifts. It had not been a normal situation. But what did they expect of him? He had not yet had the chance to live a normal life. It was rather unkind of them both to expect so much of him so early. Hadn't he done everything either of them had asked? What more could they possibly want? How long had it been since he'd sent Christine away with Raoul that day? How long had it been since Elizabeth had first set foot in the house on the lake? He had not harmed a soul since then, had not even played a single prank.

Even the Persian still expected vile acts from him without acknowledging that recent past events stemmed from a need to protect himself. He willingly admitted—to himself, anyway—that he could not excuse the atrocities of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. Perhaps _those_ were the reason for his present situation. He was responsible for many horrors; he did not deserve peace. Yet he craved it nonetheless and now that he was finally free—_yes!_ at last he was finally free of the desperate hunger for Christine!—he'd thought it would at last be his. But instead of disappearing and merely leaving happiness beneath it, the hunger was instead replaced with a dull ache, for no matter what he did differently now, it was likely those who knew him would consider him a monster regardless. It was perhaps time to go away again, as he had always done before the Opera had been built. It was a shame, really, after all the work he'd put into the house beneath the Opera, but it was perhaps inevitable. Fortunately, assuming the new mask worked as expected, when he went away this time, he would not have to live in fear as he once had.

He felt a strange sorrow that was not due to any one thing in particular but rather due to the idea that he felt he would never be happy, even if things were to go well. After all, hadn't things recently gone _rather_ well, considering? Christine had not yelled at him, abused him, called him terrible things. She had been civil. He had been permitted to attend tea with her. Tea! What a concept, that poor hideous Erik might ever be invited to tea. Perhaps it was the most he could ever hope for. He couldn't even savor the thought, for he still felt the sorrow.

In fact, he was so fixated on sorrow that it seemed he could hear sobbing before the tears ever rose in his eyes. As they did so, before he let them fall, he sat up, held his breath and listened carefully. It was not his imagination. There was no mistaking it; though they were muffled as though someone were trying desperately not to be heard, he could hear sobs from nearby. His own sorrow was suddenly forgotten and replaced instead by something more akin to fear as he realized he had not the slightest idea who was sobbing, why, or what could be done about it. Trying to remain rational, he pieced it together. Assuming Elizabeth were the only other person in the house, it had to be she, for the neighboring houses were not so close that a neighbor, even one with his sensitive hearing, could hear _muffled_ sobs at that distance. Assuming it were Elizabeth, _why_ continued to escape him, as did what could be done about it.

He had many times in the past tried to stop Christine's tears, but it seemed his presence did nothing but cause more to fall. He would be entirely useless in this situation. Even so, he sought to understand why he felt fear. Surely there was no danger. If there were danger, Elizabeth would not just lie there and weep. She would do something about the problem. It was what she did. If she could not, surely she would call for him. No. There was no danger. There was only Elizabeth. Crying. Why? And he suddenly realized the reason for his fear. In the months that he had known her, he had never heard her cry. He had seen tears form in her eyes once, but she hadn't made a sound. No, he corrected himself. She might have made a wept aloud that first day by the coffin, for how else had he known she was there if not by hearing her first? But the circumstances were wildly different. What reason could she possibly have to cry now? He reflected on her stories of her past. Perhaps that was it. In any event, he was entirely _useless_ in that area as he seemed entirely unable to overcome his own past, let alone someone else's. So he remained as he was, listening through the wall to her anguished sobs until she apparently fell asleep.

The following morning Elizabeth rose early and prepared a light breakfast of toast and fruit. She left Erik a note and was silently grateful he had not yet awakened. She wasn't sure how to talk to him about what she needed to say. She would think it over and perhaps address him over dinner. Or after dinner. Dinner was too complicated; they still ate separately, due to the mask. But she would try to speak to him in the evening as they sat in the parlor, perhaps. Though it was not chilly, she could ask him to build a fire perhaps…. She would have to think on it more first.

She left while he was yet asleep and traveled to the Valerius apartment to meet with Christine and Raoul as Christine had requested the day before in the foyer. Her sessions with Christine had continued as before, though somewhat less frequently since her first visit with Erik had been at least marginally successful. Following the second Christine had talked of their progress with Raoul, and after their sudden, previously unplanned meeting upon which Erik had insisted, Christine had asked Elizabeth if she could meet with her _and Raoul_ together. It was, after all, time to begin once again to plan their wedding.

Elizabeth listened politely as the young couple who sat beaming on the settee discussed their feelings for one another and their lack of family ties which both resolved difficulties and presented new ones at once. Because Comte Philippe had opposed Raoul's marriage to Christine, Raoul's sisters did not necessarily approve of it, but their opinions had little weight due to Raoul's new status as Comte. Certainly, there were people in society who would no longer look upon Raoul—or his family—in the same way if he married Christine. But ultimately, with no parents and no older brother, Raoul was free to marry as he pleased. Christine, of course, had had no one to speak for her for years save Mamma Valerius whose position was voluntary rather than legal; additionally, she certainly approved of Raoul. It did leave them entirely without parents to plan the event for them, however, which led Raoul to suggest that they should marry quietly with no guests as they had planned when they first escaped Erik's lair.

Christine insisted that as she was to be married only once in her life and that it would be the happiest day of her life, she wanted everyone to share it with her. Raoul naturally agreed, if only to please his future wife. That left regular mundane matters such as talking to the priest and deciding whom to invite. It also left Raoul's question to Elizabeth as to whether she felt it was too soon for Christine to marry after her terrible fright. And while Elizabeth had her own reservations about Christine marrying anyone just then, they were certainly not due to her recent ordeal with Erik but rather with her tendency to change her mind so abruptly back and forth. She said as much, though carefully so as not to offend Raoul or anger Christine.

She was surprised, however, when Christine responded with what sounded like a carefully rehearsed response to that exact concern.

"Elizabeth," she said carefully. "I've at last figured it out. You see, all along I had these strong feelings for two men at the same time, and I worried whether I loved them both. And as I have been told it is not possible to love two men in that way, I then doubted whether I loved either. But then I thought back upon my childhood with Raoul! And I realized that all the time I loved Raoul, I loved my father, too. It is possible to love two men, simply not in the same way. I didn't realize it until now, so when I was with Raoul, I wanted to marry Raoul, and when I was with Erik, I let myself be convinced that I wanted to marry Erik." Here Raoul winced. "I don't know, you know. I've told you that before. But it's not because I hate him. I don't. I simply don't wish to marry him any more than a girl who had one might wish to marry her brother."

Of course it was true, Elizabeth reasoned. She certainly felt the same type of love for Wilhelm who had rescued her long ago, as she did for her brother who had always provided for her when she was in need. But those feelings were not the same as what she felt for John, or for…. "Yes," she murmured a response.

"So having realized this, I am decided, Elizabeth. I have loved Raoul all along. I _do_ wish him to be my husband!" She clutched at his hands, and he looked both proud and relieved. Yes, relieved. Elizabeth remembered his countenance three week earlier, the way his shoulders had slumped and all the light had gone out of his eyes as he agreed to let Christine visit Erik. He had been so sure then that he would lose, and yet he had won. Elizabeth felt a similar relief that she could never admit; she smiled at him weakly.

The conversation turned quickly to the matter of planning the wedding, and suddenly Elizabeth was present only because it would be been impolite to ask her to go. She knew none of the people of whom they spoke, Raoul frantically listing off noble who could not be slighted because of histories with his father or his brother or an uncle or distant cousin, while Christine listed off members of the chorus, members of the corps de ballet, former instructors, friends of her father, of Mamma Valerius—and suddenly she leapt up and went to a small roll-top desk for pen and paper. A brief disagreement ensued about having someone take dictation for Christine, with Christine insisting that there simply weren't servants about and that absolute idleness would have to wait until after their marriage. They promptly returned to their lists of names. Then, suddenly, in the midst of writing, Christine stopped in the middle of a line and loudly exclaimed "Oh!"

Both Raoul and Elizabeth looked at her suddenly and Raoul reached for her. "What's wrong, love?" he asked quickly, concern painted across his brow.

"Oh!" Christine breathed aloud again, her face suddenly lighting up with excitement.

Raoul and Elizabeth exchanged glances that appeared to reflect something more like "Oh no."

Raoul covered his concern more quickly and turned to her. "Yes, my sweet," he asked.

Christine smiled at him but turned her eyes quickly to Elizabeth and focused on the woman as she said what she needed to say. It came out in bursts; such was her excitement that she was breathless. "Oh, Elizabeth," she said "We can't exclude Erik now. Not now that I finally understand at last!" She glanced at Raoul in delight. "It will be the happiest day of my _life_," she said, "and he... well he is..." she glanced at Raoul again, this time with trepidation. "He is someone... very special," she concluded awkwardly "to me. I couldn't imagine not having him there to share it."

Elizabeth and Raoul exchanged glances again. Neither one smiled, though perhaps for different reasons.

Christine took no notice of this, for another idea suddenly struck her, and it excited her still more than the first. "Elizabeth!" she cried out. "I have the most wonderful idea!"

Feeling something rather close to dread, Elizabeth politely lifted her eyebrows in question.

"Elizabeth, you recall what I said about being able to love more than one man at a time? Oh, Elizabeth, it's so wonderful! You see, if that is true, then it's not that I never loved Erik!"

Here Raoul placed his head in his hands and moaned as though in pain, but Christine seemed not to notice. "It is that I never loved him in the way I love Raoul." She smiled as though the idea were entirely new, as though she were the first person on earth to have discovered that there is more than one type of affection to which the word love can refer, as though she were the first one to put forth this idea aloud.

"When he was kind he was a wonderful teacher, such an inspiration, and even though it weren't really real, it's hard not to think of him as an angel sent by my father." Raoul was sitting straight in his chair again now but had gone a ghastly pale. "Elizabeth, I have no family at all. My poor father is long dead and cannot be present at my wedding, Elizabeth. Who will stand in his place? Who will give my hand to Raoul?"

Elizabeth became aware that she was slowly shaking her head back and forth as Christine looked anxiously from her to Raoul and back again, her smile slowly fading. "What? Why—" she began.

Both of the other members of the party cast their eyes downward. Raoul lightly clenched his fists while Elizabeth twisted her hands nervously about one another.

Christine continued to look helplessly between the two of them.

Elizabeth looked to Raoul, but he said nothing. Finally, she spoke. She kept her voice soft and as soothing as possible. "Christine," she said gently, "I am sure Erik would be touched by your kind words and your desire to include him. But I think it's unrealistic to consider that he would be able to attend your wedding. Even if we didn't have to consider how greatly it might upset him, it simply _isn't possible_."

Christine stared at her. "But..." she said, but she stopped as quickly as she began and hung her head. Then she lifted it and began again. "But Elizabeth, he's been so polite and respectful at tea!" she said. "I'm sure he'd be fine at a wedding!"

"Surely you understand," Elizabeth continued. "I've tried, Christine. I've tried to work with him. He doesn't remove the mask anymore now, even in front of me, and I daresay we went weeks without it when I first encountered him. Does he remove it in front of you? You said that he apparently appeared in public at the Opera at least twice without it in front of all those people,didn't you?"

Here Christine nodded miserably. Though she hadn't seen Erik at the manager's retirement banquet, she had heard the descriptions and had no doubt. He had even alluded to it in conversation once.

"And now for whatever reason he won't reveal himself to one or two of us, even just for a moment. Consider the number of people you expect to celebrate with you. Would you have him arrive in a mask and have everyone stare? Would you dare to ask him to attend without it? What you're asking is simply impossible at this moment. Someday, perhaps. But I sincerely doubt you would postpone your marriage indefinitely holding out for the hope that someday he is able. I know the Comte doesn't wish to." She tried to smile at Raoul but lost her nerve. He looked most unhappy but there was not a thing she could do for him.

Christine nodded miserably. Raoul looked as though he needed to cry but couldn't. Then suddenly he leapt, startled by another outcry from Christine.

"Oh, but I know how to solve that!" Christine cried. "Oh, Raoul, it will be most spectacular! It would be so unique, oh please—let's get married _masked_!"

Raoul looked at her as though she had spoken another language. He frowned at her with his whole face as though trying to decipher something infinitely complex.

She clutched at his hand. "Oh, Raoul! It will be perfect! Just like the night of the masquerade ball, except this time _I_ shall wear white and _you_ shall wear black. It was, after all, at the masked ball at the Opera that night that I first admitted I loved you! And Raoul, listen! We can have everyone—all our guests—be masked. Won't it be wonderful, Raoul?" She didn't give him time to respond before she turned her face and cried "Elizabeth?"

Before either of them could respond she lit up again. "Raoul," she said turning to him "It would be rather appropriate, I think. I will wear a _mask _instead of a _veil_. It's customary for a new husband to lift his wife's veil. You could instead remove my mask. Won't it be grand? One might say we all wear masks anyway, but once we are married we shouldn't have to in front of one another, anyway. Then I would remove yours as well, but the guests, oh the guests would remain as they were, in their masks. As would our families, what families we have, and it would include Erik, of course. That would save him the trouble, you see. It saves him the danger of allowing anyone to see him and the embarrassment of being the only one in a mask! He wouldn't stand out in the least, judging by the way the Opera guests chose masks for _that_ event. Surely, Erik will likely be one of the more subdued looking characters there! And it would make for such fun afterwards. We could invite everyone to—" she stopped suddenly. It was as though she just then realized she was the only one who was excited about the possibilities. "What's the matter with you two? Don't you see? This _solves_ the problem of Erik for if everyone is wearing them, he won't seem the least bit strange. It allows him to be there, without having to show his face at all. And it would be delightful fun as well. And—and—we could even hold it—"

"Yes, that is going to be a problem," Raoul said softly, but Elizabeth could hear the anger in the way he clipped his words short. "Where are you going to find a church that would allow it or a priest who would consent—"

"We could hold it at the Opera, Raoul! Wouldn't it be wonderful? After all it's the place where we met again after all those years. I'm sure I could convince the managers. It's not as though they're doing anything else with it at present anyway! I'm sure we could convince them. And Elizabeth! You said Erik needed more friends, didn't you? What could possibly be better than being entirely surrounded be wedding guests? All right, then, it's all settled, then. I can't wait to tell Erik! Oh, Elizabeth, you'll ask him for me, won't you? She went on her knees before the other woman for a moment, grasping her hands and desperately squeezing them. "I'm afraid he'll say no, and I couldn't bear it, but you can persuade him, I just know it. Thank you!" she concluded without waiting for a response. And with that she sprung to her feet and darted from the room, presumably to tell Mamma Valerius about her glorious plans.

Elizabeth looked at Raoul with apology in her eyes. "I'm not sure I understand what just happened here," she said.

"She does this sometimes," he responded. "When she gets excited. One gets used to it, I suppose." He sounded tired.

_One can get used to anything, if one wishes_ Erik's voice said in Elizabeth's memory. She wondered how much Raoul was willing to get used to.

"Well?"

He spread his hands plaintively.

"Do you want to talk to her or shall I?"

He had placed his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, but now he looked up at her again. "Not today," he said tiredly. "Perhaps she will tire of it like a game."

"One can hope."

He looked up at her; his eyes were steel. "You are going to speak _him_ about this?"

She shrugged. "It's not as though I have much choice," she said softly. "Though I strongly suspect he will say no. Even so, tonight is not the night to ask him. Let us wait and see whether anything changes."

Raoul sighed with half-hearted relief. Elizabeth did not, for it was she who had been charged with asking Erik to give the hand of the woman he loved to his rival in front of what promised to be hundreds of people. Now there were, at minimum, two—no, three—very serious topics about which she needed to find the words to tell Erik.

* * *

**Bleeding Heart Conservative's Final Thoughts:** Hmmm... what are these three things Elizabeth must tell Erik now? One is of course Christine's well-meaning but likely ill-received request that he stand in her father's place during the wedding. But what are the _other_ two? I love it when you all guess things, but I love it MORE when you SUGGEST things. I am having SUCH fun waiting to see what you all will come up with and whether it is similar to what I am plotting. Oh, this is SO fun!

Reviews, please? Questions or comments? I don't even care if they are about the story. Even the ones that say "How is the weather in LA? When are you going home?" are fine too.

Also, is there anyone out there who thinks Christne's wedding idea is a good one?


	50. Chapter 50: Freedom

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note:** Hey, everyone! I will be going back to make ONE small correction to chapter 19, because I decided this late in the game that I had made a mistake when I allowed Elizabeth to lie to Erik, even once. A single lie could unravel the whole rest of the story, so I'm going back and taking out a few words. I'm telling you now because the effects of that change show up in this chapter. The only difference, though, is that while Elizabeth tells everyone else she is from England and they all sort of accept it without question, when she gave Erik her whole story, she provided all the little details about what happened to her, but she didn't say where—because remember from chapter 3 that I already mentioned that she gave her name as Elizabeth Smythe of London England, but neither the name nor the origin was entirely true. Okay… so she has lied to him a bit—but only about her name. Of course, they say his name's not really Erik, either, so you know… "What's in a name?"

* * *

When Erik woke, Elizabeth was gone and the house was deathly silent, unlike his mind. Within, his thoughts were a barrage of unpleasantness repeatedly assaulting his frail ego with remembered indiscretions, guilty acts, moments of humiliation and errors of judgment that made him seem utterly foolish. It was not the distant past this time, though that was still there underlying everything else. Now it was primarily the very _recent_ past. Specifically, things like falling upon his knees before Christine so wretchedly. What must she think? Sitting awkwardly at tea and allowing Elizabeth to direct a conversation between him and Christine as though he were a child who could not handle a mere discussion. How foolish must he look! And those items of Christine's! He should have left them with the Persian forever. Or thrown them in the Seine for all they were appreciated! No, the gloves were. And the letters. He could have easily disposed of the other items and presented those to Christine casually saying "You left these behind once," and nothing more. Indeed. She never would have suspected the truth. Actually, it seemed she didn't suspect the truth anyway, but the look on Elizabeth's face had been unmistakable disgust. Alas, it was always disgust from someone. Horrible, disgusting Erik.

He performed the morning ritual of the mask. Yes, there was a morning ritual as well, for he had recently taken to leaving the quilt off the mirror over night and performing the evening ritual in reverse each morning. The sight of his own face in the mirror did little for his emotional state, but he placed the mask carefully over it then ceremoniously covered the mirror, turned the key in the lock and stepped from the room. The stillness of the house was unsettling. He found his way through the dining room and into the kitchen, where there was a note from Elizabeth. He admired it without reading as he had done with Christine's letters to Raoul. She had lovely handwriting, too, though it was not at all like Christine's. Christine's hand was made with large loopy letters, perfectly vertical. Elizabeth's slanted extremely to the right and the crosses of t's and dots of i's and the ends of letters were made with great flourishes of the pen. Their letters were works of art. His own were—well, rather ominous, yes, but also childish.

He broke off his reverie to actually read the letter. Elizabeth was visiting with Christine and Raoul. She was not certain what time she would return. Fruit for breakfast. She didn't know when he would wake so she didn't leave anything that would get cold. Strange choice of words, he thought, but a nice gesture. So kind… Whatever her sorrow last night, she somehow thought of him first this morning. Well, of Christine. Then him. But to be second was something, especially considering who he was.

Yes, who he was. A source of horror to his own family, a source of fear to everyone he encountered. A visual prostitute of sorts if you considered the freak shows, a murderer if you discounted the fact that the individuals he'd killed in Persia had been sentenced to die by the Shah, a thief and a liar and even…yes, even a coward. Someone who preyed on the weak. Someone who delighted in the eventual misfortunes of those who had been more fortunate than he. An abductor of opera singers—even if just one. And a monster. Never forget that. A monster. And yet… No, that was not all there was to it.

He carried a plate of fruit to the bedroom, for this was the only place where he would remove the mask. Strange, he thought. Here he sat in an ordinary house on the outskirts of Paris, far from the Opera, eating fruit for breakfast and waiting for a woman to return. It hardly seemed the place for a monster; they hardly seemed the actions of a monster. And there had been tea the day before. Awkward tea with awkward gifts, but nothing monstrous about it. The realization crept in slowly. The problem was within his own mind.

Elizabeth had tried to tell him this. He had read it in that book as well. He sat very still as contemplated all that entailed. He was not entirely sane, then. He had never really suspected he was, but he had simply accepted that he was both ugly and crazy. It was still true. Realizing he was crazy didn't suddenly make his face handsome. To think so would be _complete_ craziness. He already had some ideas about what to do about the ugliness… but when he had told Christine of the wonderful new mask he had created—had it been three months ago? It seemed years… But when he had told her of it, she had only cried harder. He would have been a monster still even had he suddenly been miraculously transformed, for he had behaved as a monster behaves. It felt the most natural way _to_ behave. It was, indeed, the way he had _always_ behaved. It usually worked. Except with Christine. And Elizabeth. Ah, no… it _sometimes_ got him what he wanted if it was something one could get with intimidation, but it _never_ earned him affection. That was it then. It seemed too simple.

He put the mask back on, unlocked the door, returned the plate to the kitchen and cast about for Elizabeth's book. Surely, the answer was in there somewhere. The trouble was he'd been distracted by Christine, and he hadn't finished reading it.

He settled in the parlor and found the place where he'd stopped quite easily and began reading about Anna O, who was "markedly intelligent with an astonishingly quick grasp of things and penetrating intuition" who was experiencing physical symptoms such as "a convergent squint, severe disturbances of vision, contractures in both the upper and lower extremities, and paresis of the neck." It seemed to have nothing at all to do with his situation, but he was reluctant to skip portions in case he missed something important. There were, indeed, a few items of interest in Anna's case. At one time, she had gone weeks without eating. In another, she had felt a surge of energy and was able to continue working through days and nights on end. He resented the suggestion that these behaviors could have somehow led to hysteria, but as it seemed he was in a position of being the least likely to know, he simply kept reading. He continued reading, in fact, until he reached the part where she began to have hallucinations of "terrifying figures with deaths deads… skeletons… little snakes with deaths heads." He felt offended and skipped to the end of the case study. He lost his focus and began skimming.

He noted that hysterical symptoms "immediately and permanently disappear" once a doctor has succeeded in "bringing clearly to light the memory of the event by which it was provoked and in arousing its accompanying affect, and when the patient had described that event in the furtherst possible detail and had put the affect into words." He remembered the sudden and seemingly unrelated memory he'd had of the freak show the morning after Elizabeth had insisted he talk about the past and wondered if there was a connection. According to this, he'd have to tell all of it. _That_ would certainly take a long while. She would likely listen, too.

He remembered the touch of her hands as he lay on the sofa in the parlor of the house by the lake. They were firm but gentle, pushing down on his shoulders, insisting he remain there. They were soft and cool, as she placed them on his forehead. Alternately, they were warm in contrast to his own as she reached across the table to touch his hand lightly and smile at him. They were harsh one moment, seemingly beating upon him but a moment later they were gentle again, lifting the mask, touching his lips, easing him back onto the pillow. And they were _magical_ reaching out to him each time the tension threatened to return him to anger, to violence, to vengeance—to his former self. He closed his eyes and remembered the touch of her hands….

When he opened them again, he looked at his own skeletal hands where they lay upon the open book and realized the thought of her had distracted him entirely from his purpose.

He turned a page and resumed reading.

Apparently, memories of a distressing nature, calculated to arouse the effects of shame, self reproach and the feeling of being harmed—feelings that one would prefer not to have experienced and that one would rather forget led to psychical pain and oftentimes, hysteria. He'd certainly experienced far more than his fair share of that. It was rather a wonder, if this were true, that he was functional at all!

The next page indicated that all dreams were wish fulfillments, and Erik couldn't help but scoff. If that were the case, there was far more wrong with him than he thought. Did this mean he would have to recount all those, as well, he wondered. It would take longer than he expected to live to tell all his terrible dreams in addition to all he had endured. Yet as he considered it, it seemed the most natural thing that she would sit and listen—as long as he did not mention the ones in which she made an appearance. The last time she had told him he could tell her anything and he did, she had run out of the room ill. He wondered if her reaction would be the same if he told her of his pleasant dreams involving her. No, best not to tell about those, either. It wouldn't be a problem. The nightmares that had plagued him all his life would fill volumes. He began to look forward to her arrival with a peculiar and morbid anxiety. Everything he would have to say would be terrible, but there would be _light_ at the end of it all.

Glancing back at the book, he noticed with rue that, "anxiety neurosis arises from accumulation of physical tension, which is itself once more of sexual origin, manifesting itself in phobias, anxious expectations and hyperaesthesia." It was not only a warning of something else to be prepared to endure, but also perhaps a explained some of those pleasant dreams he had been just remembering.

Still, he hadn't found what he was looking for. Was there a way to be sure of what was happening (or had long ago happened) to him? Could he determine it himself, for ever encountering one of these doctors was out of the question due to the nature of the many secrets he could never reveal—yet would apparently _have_ to reveal if they were to help him. What about revealing it all _to her_? Perhaps… just perhaps… _she_ could be trusted, in spite of… He thumbed through the book more rapidly, searching, searching—until it inevitably happened.

He turned the page of the book and found a folded piece of paper too large to be merely a bookmark. Notes on the book, perhaps? Elizabeth's notes on the book? Ah, that would be interesting, for those he had doubted her at first, she had apparently had some grasp on what she was doing. But he hadn't even noticed her reading lately! Without really thinking about it, he unfolded the paper curiously.

My Dearest Elizabeth? Not just dear. Dear_est_. While anyone might call another "dearest" in a letter, the following "May I still call you that?" seemed to imply something more. There was a relationship here—or there had been. She had been here a long time. With her sad story of her deceased husband, he hadn't thought she had anyone waiting for her, but perhaps she did after all. His image of her suddenly changed slightly.

An interesting case? Christine. Or was it he, himself? Was that all this was? Was that why she showed so little emotion? Was he merely _a case_? He looked about the room, bewildered. What had he done? What had he gotten himself into _this_ time? It could be _worse_ than Christine... for this time, he'd come closer. He had not only gone about unmasked, but he had allowed her to bring him here. He had been vulnerable in front of her. He had admitted things to her. He had kissed her once, and though it was long ago and he had vowed never to do it again, it did not change that he had done it, and that it was beyond the way he had kissed Christine. He would always remember it, though it had happened somehow… accidentally… naturally… at the time. He put his head in his hands as he realized the terrible mistake of letting her touch him. Oh yes, this had gone much further than the game he'd played with Christine beneath the Opera. A game. That's what it suddenly seemed, though it had been so real at the time. Christine and Raoul had played an engagement game above the Opera while Erik and Christine played the same game beneath. But Elizabeth did not merely know the way to the house on the lake. She did not merely visit occasionally. She had led him above, had held him in her possession for so long! What did she intend to do? She had contacted the Persian! What about? Surely if he had wanted to take action against him, turn him in, do away with him, he could have done it that night three months ago—or last week! Even as the thoughts whirled through his head, he continued reading.

Dr. Treves and another individual? England? She would be _leav_ing? But not to return to this man, who was apparently writing from Germany…. Why? Would never return to England? Would not ask it of her? England was the country of which she spoke that afternoon in the cellars? _England_? Her accent didn't sound English!

You know I enjoy your company. It is dreadfully dull here without you. He _missed_ her. And what would it be like _here_ without her? Certainly very different. Quiet. Like it was now. _Lonely_.

With all my love and affection. Not just his love and affection, but _all_ of it. This man was _in love with her_.

Now he suddenly remembered the sobs he'd heard the night before. Oh yes, he'd done it again. Only twice in his miserable life he'd encountered a situation in which a woman was willing to be near him, and both times it was someone who was to be reclaimed by a ghost from her past. It was the second time, but there would not be a third. He was not so much grieved as resolved. He did not plan to do as he had done the time before—neglect himself until he had wasted away—but come what may, there would be no more entertaining any hope of interaction with the fairer sex. It was not only for his own sanity, but for theirs. Even when they did not fear him, their interactions with him brought them only tears.

Poor Elizabeth, probably pining to go to her lover, but feeling sorry for poor hideous Erik who surely would be alone forever. Poor Elizabeth, unable to leave due to her guilt over poor miserable Erik. Poor Elizabeth: but it was no matter. He could fix this. He would free her even as he had freed Christine. He would not make the same mistakes this time, however. He had learned from the past. Now he realized his folly early enough. There would be no attempt to win her over. There would be no begging, no pleading, and certainly no threats to many members of the human race. Nothing was to be blown up and no one would be in danger of drowning. No. This time he would make it simple. He would remain as he had always been—lonely—but it would be of little consequence, for he had _changed_!

She would be so pleased! It was what she had been encouraging him to do all along—think things through, not over react, stop trying to control people! He had never really believed there was any chance it could happen. The way he was was simple the way he was, but no !longer! Freud was perhaps not such an idiot after all, and Elizabeth—well, she had worked miracles! He was entirely free now. She had given him freedom of his ego, and in the house on the lake beneath the opera, he had already carefully manufactured for himself freedom of his face. He fairly trembled with anticipation and a wild new emotion shot through him which he could not name. He felt suddenly weightless. Had there been an organ nearby, he'd have played the most lighthearted melody he could conceive. Had there been no neighbors, he would have sung aloud. He did not know for certain what to call this strange new emotion, but any other member of the human race would have identified it instantly as joy. He rushed through the small house gathering up the few items that belonged to him—not much more than a second set of clothing—and rushed headlong out of the home, blatantly ignoring the simple fact that it was just past noon, and naturally, broad daylight.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought:** Please don't be mad at me for the way this chapter ends! Can you forgive me? Please review and let me know you're not going to go away forever and leave me here all alone!


	51. Chapter 51: Missing

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note(s):**

1) Thanks for all of your kind reviews.

2) I am continually surprised at how long it takes to accomplish one little plot piece effectively and realistically. This story should have been finished LONG ago. Numerous new ideas have occurred to me for DIFFERENT stories, and I can't begin them because if I do, I would get distracted and not be able to finish either... so onward we go.

3) Lots of you have said really complimentary stuff and I know that I've responded to you individually, but I wanted to say publicly that you all are really helping me out a lot because my story is basically that I started writing when I was a little kid and everyone thought I was very gifted, but after high school I gave up fiction and after college I gave up everything but occasional poetry which became less and less over the years. This is the first creative thing I've written just because I felt the desire to write in OVER ten years, so I feel rusty. Encouragement is great because it tells me that getting back to it was the right thing to do. Criticism is great, too, though, because it helps me see what I need to work on. I know every writer on here wants reviews, and I try to review everything I read, so I don't want to sound like I'm asking more than the others--but I do want to tell you that I really, REALLY do try to take all suggestions. Thanks.

4) I'm trying out these horizontal lines within the story because... well... I thought it needed them for the transitions this time around.

* * *

He'd walked two blocks before he realized what he had done. It was broad daylight. Fortunately, there was no one about in the immediate vicinity, but that was not a situation that could be sustained for long. As he realized this, he could feel his shoulders draw forward and down and noticed the ground in front of him came into view instead of the street further ahead. This was not unlike what had happened in the parlor. He forced himself to straighten his shoulders. It was a long way to where he was going, but there was no turning back now, for if he waited until dark, she would surely arrive and if he looked at her, he might change his mind. He instead entertained the faint hope that perhaps no one would chance to look upon him as he made his way back.

There seemed little chance of that. Even from a distance or without looking at his face, he was in evening attire at noon. Then there was the white mask, which probably reflected sunlight and sent it dazzling in all directions like a beacon sending a signal to everyone in moderate proximity—"Look here!" It was quite unlikely he would get home unscathed, but anything was _remotely_ possible. After all, he had occasionally done this sort of thing before, years earlier. When he'd first arrived in Paris he'd worked on the Opera with other contractors who often leered and jeered but generally did not inflict any physical abuse. It was not walking down a crowded street in a mask that people objected to—it was taking up residence near them or expecting to be accepted that turned them violent. A chance encounter made them curious. Repeated exposure bred contempt and then hostility, so he'd built the house beneath the Opera to hide from men's eyes for all time. After first taking up residence beneath the Opera, he'd enjoyed the solitude, but his relief was transitory, and over the years loneliness had had strange contradictory effects on him. The longer he stayed beneath, the lonelier he felt. Conversely, the longer he stayed below, the more apprehension he felt regarding everyone from above. The ordeal with Christine had been a desperate attempt to reach out, but its failure was devastating. As he became more and more involved with her, more and more he detested the rest of humanity so that when it ended, it was as though the world had ended. With her had exited all hope of redemption and all shreds of confidence.

Ah. Another sign that mentally he'd been getting _worse_. Being out now should suggest the opposite then, but there was no telling, really. Nevertheless, it would please _her_, as she had been so intent he would not only go above, but enjoy himself while there. Out was difficult enough. He would worry about enjoyment later, if ever. He thought of how he had planned to surprise her and wondered what would be the point of surprising her now? She belonged to someone else. He would accept it gracefully this time. He certainly would not threaten the man's life.

* * *

When Elizabeth left the Valerius apartment after her difficult conversation with Raoul and Christine, she did not immediately go home as she had an appointment to keep. Indeed, she had almost declined Christine's request that she come today, for she feared it would interfere with what she considered to be a very important meeting with a young law student whom she had met casually before she had dared to brave the depths of the Opera and encountered Erik. Surely he had thought that she had returned to Germany for her long absence and lack of contact, but he remembered her and was entirely willing to research the matter about which she had contacted him. It remained only to meet so she could disclose the somewhat sensitive subject.

She arrived late to the appointed location, a cafe not far from the university where the young man studied, and worried terribly when she did not immediately locate him. A moment later, as she stood uncomfortably looking around, he addressed her formally and showed her to a small table in the corner of the room which he hoped would be "private enough" to discuss "introductory remarks with regards to the matter at hand." She agreed but indicated they would need to retire somewhere still more private as the more intimate details were revealed. Eventually—but with much trepidation for any reputation she might have left—she allowed him to escort her to his flat where they sat out on a small terrace and spoke in low tones about one of her many secrets.

It was not in the least odd that someone might consider a legal matter strictly confidential. It was, however, a bit strange that she preferred to work with a student rather than a practicing attorney, that she would write down nothing, and that she insisted in speaking in hypotheticals. He rather suspected she was perhaps a slightly unhinged, that her hypothetical situations were creations of a deranged mind—for indeed some of them sounded quite fantastical—but he'd always had a flair for the bizarre and enjoyed eccentrics, so he entertained her every unusual notion and answered her as correctly as he could, promising to verify his answers through research and by asking respected professors, _hypothetically_, of course.

* * *

Lost in his thoughts, Erik startled considerably and nearly ran for cover when he heard loud shrieking voices approaching. He stiffened and looked about him quickly. With the sun directly overhead, shadows in which to hide were nonexistent. A group of children were hurtling toward him in a solid chaotic mass. His heart sunk at the realization. As an adult, he could surely overpower even so many of them, but he would not forgiven if he harmed a child. He would have to endure whatever befell him without raising a hand to stop it. Before he had worked himself entirely into a panic, however, the children were suddenly behind him, still shouting and laughing, but _not_ about him. They had been so engrossed in shoving one another about and playing that none of them looked above their own eye level to notice his mask. Wildly fortunate, he thought as he walked on. But could such good fortune last?

It was further to the Opera than he'd realized. He hadn't been able to pay close attention the night they moved to the house, as he had not felt entirely well. After the effort it took to be downstairs before Elizabeth, having left after her, had tired him. Managing to be inside the carriage before the valet hailed it had entirely done him in. He _had_ surprised her, though, he remembered with a faint smile. Illusions always seemed to impress her at least a little, but that time he had caught her completely off guard, much as he had the night he waited for her at the hotel. That night, he recalled, he had been far too distraught to enjoy her surprise.

The sun was warm. It baked into his back through his dress coat as he first strolled—then later trudged as the heat fatigued him—down the deserted street. It was uncanny how few people were out in this part of the city at this hour. He couldn't have planned it better, he considered.

But at length he came to a more populated area. He sensed it instinctively before he reached it, and he slowed his pace and then stopped, as a horse will when urged to cross an unstable bridge. He _felt_, rather than saw, the crowds ahead and thought of the damage that could be done in daylight. What was it Christine had said about seeing him by the light of day? He could not quite remember it, but it had been something horrible. People were passing by now, and also coming around and from behind. He was suddenly part of a large crowd, and he felt a sense of panic. He turned his face down as far as his neck would permit him, focused only on getting to the Opera without incident. Oh, what a tragic accident it would be, if now—now!—when he felt he had perhaps at last changed, if suddenly he were placed in a situation in which he might have to kill to get away. Still worse, how could he do so by the light of day? And why had he come here? What had he been thinking? It would have been better to wait until she fell asleep and steal silently out the window! Yet as he thought it, he quiet naturally corrected himself. He had not wanted to see her, for though he would not admit it, it would upset him to see her after the letter.

The letter. How had this happened again? At least this time he had not had to see the man, to hear his voice, to know he was close enough to touch her. But it was almost as painful to read his words and note his fine gentlemanly script—so different from his own horrid scrawl. But the letter meant nothing, for there were people surrounding him entirely, and though not a one had yet said a word, he was beginning to feel their stares and he could hear his heart pound loudly in his ears, feel his pulse beating in his neck, sense the moisture running down his face within the mask. Elizabeth seemed to think going out in public was realistic. Surely there was something inherently wrong with her mind as well if that was her honest opinion—

"Why's that man wearing that?" he heard a child's voice saying loudly from not far ahead.

"Hush, son," his mother said in a low tone. He couldn't help but notice before he turned away that she was trim and blonde and pretty.

"Is there something wrong with his face?"

The mother tugged on her child's harm more harshly and said in a fierce whisper, "You must never say such things aloud! It is not polite!"

"But it looks so peculiar Mama," the boy continued, his voice fading as Erik quickened his pace leaving them behind but jostling others and furthering his state of near panic.

Nothing has happened yet, he told himself. They are staring, but no one has said anything except that child. No one has approached you. No one has done anything to you. It was no use, however. His rational mind could not calm his fears, for though he could try to tell himself that fears were irrational, his past had already proved that wrong. Fear was perhaps the most rational way of all to view so-called humanity after all he had endured.

* * *

As Erik worked himself into a state of near-panic on the streets of Paris contemplating alternately debating the rationality or lack thereof as related to his varied fears, Elizabeth allowed the young law student to drive her back to the home Raoul had lent her. She did not invite him in and he did not find it odd in the least considering the information he had gleaned from her strange half-confidences. He drove off, chuckling to himself about her wild fantasies and what would be the legal ramifications if any of them were real while she entered the house practically on the tips of her toes with excitement, for though she could not tell Erik what was brewing, she secretly hoped it would please him and with these thoughts in mind was looking forward to spending time around him, even if he couldn't yet know.

She entered the house to find it empty and silent. She went from room to room looking about in consternation. It was light out yet, so Erik must be here somewhere. He would never leave in daylight, she was certain, nor had she expected he had any reason to leave that day. Everything seemed to be just as she had left it but that the door to his room was open whereas that morning it had been closed and locked. The night he had decided to go to the Persian, he had specifically stated he would wait until nightfall, so it seemed most peculiar he would do differently only a few days later. She checked the garden and was disappointed he was not there. She had, after all, encouraged him to enter the garden even by daylight, and it would have been glorious to find him there among the flowers in the sunshine enjoying the fresh air. Perplexed, she silently wandered through the rooms of the house once again, then retraced her steps while calling his name. She sat down in the parlor to think, but could not conceive of where he could possibly be.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **I know this chapter wasn't "exciting" but I hope you liked it anyway. If you didn't, the good news is that the next one's on the way, and though it's also rather full of filler, there's some interesting stuff on the way shortly after.

**Stuff to think about:** Will Erik make it to the Opera safely, and if so, then what? And what on earth is Elizabeth planning? What's with the sudden appearance of this young law student?

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** It's what I do, folks. Last chapter was GREAT! Almost 10. So please, please, please... speculate, suggest, complain, request, or just tell me what the weather is like where you are. I just like to know who's still reading and if they still think it's good and all. And are the horizontal line breaks okay?

SPECIAL NOTE: Because you all have been so wonderful in posting four review in 30 minutes, I'm giving you a two for one special and posting the next chapter right now. BUT, I'm begging you to please consider reviewing both chapters separately if you're a reviewer so I know what was good and what was not. Thanks!

* * *


	52. Chapter 52: The Search

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note(s):** Because you all have read and reviewed so fast (18 readers and 4 reviewers in under 30 minutes!) you are getting a two for one special. Enjoy!

* * *

Though he was almost halfway to the Opera, he was not in actuality so far away from where she sat pondering. He had paused in a small alcove outside an abandoned storefront to catch his breath. Though the shadows here were not dark enough to hide within, they sufficed to calm him slightly, and with his face to the windows he was reasonably certain, no one on the street could see the mask or the hideousness that lie beneath it. He studied the lock on the abandoned storefront as he considered his options.

If _she_ had been here, perhaps she would have threaded her arm through his and insisted he keep walking. Somehow, it would be possible then. Was it because no one would attack him with a lady willingly on his arm? Or was it something else? None of it made rational sense, but before he could think it through further, a hand touched his shoulder and he startled so much that he literally jumped and knocked into the person who had touched him.

With his head bent he cast a glance out of the corner of an eye in the direction of the touch and saw only an old woman, shabbily dressed and holding out her hands. Was she _begging_? Of _him_? If she'd said a word he hadn't noticed, deep in his thoughts as he was. He glanced at his reflection in the storefront and understood that viewing him from behind she had mistaken him for some noble—or at least bourgeois—type, and in what proved to be a wild fit of courage, had dared to touch him. Ordinarily, he would have thrown her off with a fierce failing of an arm and a growl, but this was broad daylight on a Paris street, and he had just been mistaken for a gentleman. He searched his pockets and withdrew and handful of coins. With a smirk beneath the mask he considered that the average so-called gentleman of Paris would not have endured the touch of this beggar and that he would perhaps make less of a scene, it would be more believable, it would be less _conspicuou_s to simply be cruel with her, but he simply couldn't.

He pressed the coins into her hand and refused to look at her as she stood at his side, thanking him, counting the coins, then repeating her thanks more loudly, calling him a good man and calling upon the Lord to bless him. Oh, the irony, he thought as he dug in his pockets again for something with which to pick the lock upon the door. Here she stood calling him a good man, while here he stood about the break the law. And there she stood reciting blessings over a supposed demon. As soon as she stepped away he quickly opened the lock, slipped inside, closed the door behind him, found the darkest corner and slid slowly to the ground with a sigh of relief.

* * *

Elizabeth, in a state of something nearing despair had made her way to the Opera and into the underground passageway on the rotunda side, through which they had come with the carriage that night. She did not stop to consider why Erik had left the house or how Erik had worked up the courage to pass through the streets in the daylight. She only hoped that she would find him within the confines of the Opera—and _well_. She found a lantern by the door and reasoned that if he had come this way, the lantern would be gone, for he would have taken it with him. She went beneath anyway, for she couldn't take the chance that there had been two, or that he had gone below in darkness, knowing the passages so well.

She, of course, did not know them well. There was a steep foreboding staircase she had taken twice and never again since. There was the frequently used Rue Scribe passage, and this one upon which she descended now. Surely, there were countless others, and she could not search them all. She shouldn't need to, for she fully expected he would be at the house on the lake, perhaps composing after all these long weeks away.

One can only begin to imagine the depth of her disappointment when she arrived and called his name. Only the empty echo of her own voice responded to her, and as she walked through the home, she found it dusty and untouched since the days she had returned hastily to obtain clothing for Erik and found only formal attire in a closet that looked like that of a mortician.

Elizabeth recollected: That had been the morning _after_ he had offered her all his treasure. She had called him a treasure himself, and he had clung to her crying. Perhaps she should have said _more_. The day she'd last been here was the same day she realized he'd fallen ill. She'd shaken him to get him up, questioned him, relentlessly and left him alone to go to Christine. She felt a stab of regret. Oh Erik! She'd noticed the wheezing that morning, heard the terrible crackling sound in his lungs, but she had done nothing until hours later. If she'd acted sooner... If she'd warned him what she might have to do... For that night she'd returned to find him far worse. He was delirious and dreaming. She should have done something about the fever first, but she was too concerned about the fluid in his lungs. Maybe her emotion had gotten the better of her. Maybe she'd pounded too hard. He was so very thin, after all. She'd surely hurt him. She remembered the dream he'd told her and she felt ill again recalling it. Oh, Erik... She desperately wished to hold him as she'd never before wished to hold anyone. In the Louis-Philippe room she sunk onto the bed that he hadn't even realized she'd shared with him the night he'd cried himself to sleep in her arms. She wrapped her arms around one of the pillows and cried.

* * *

She was still crying when at last she left the Opera to go to Mamma Valerius's apartment. She would perhaps talk to Christine, but ultimately, her goal was to determine how to contact Raoul, for though he hated Erik, she knew him to be a good man and she expected he could be of some help.

The sun was just beginning to set when she deposited her lantern at the entrance to the passage on the rotunda side, and it was fully dark by the time she arrived at the flat. Fortunately, Raoul was still there. Unfortunately, he and Christine were embroiled in a terrible argument, which they tactfully put on hold when Elizabeth arrived. As far as Elizabeth could tell, the argument was about Erik, and she hated that she had to bring him up yet again.

"Missing? From where?" That was Raoul who couldn't understand how Elizabeth could possibly have discovered Erik was missing unless she'd gone looking for him, and why would she have done that if Christine had just seen him yesterday. Then Elizabeth watched as his countenance changed and he realized just why she'd needed to leave the hotel, where Erik had been all this time. But with Christine in the room, Christine who did not know that the little house in fact belonged to Raoul, he said nothing but expressed his distaste with his brows alone. His look was not altogether lost on Elizabeth.

"Why, he's upset then? He said no?" That was Christine. Elizabeth almost couldn't stand to be in the room with her. She was fortunate in that regard anyway. Neither of them had seen him nor had any idea where he might be if she had already checked the Opera. Christine looked most confused, for she still did not realize that Erik had lived anywhere other than the Opera despite what she had seen in the hotel that night. She simply could not get her mind around the concept. Raoul was leaving to return to the estate then, as Christine always insisted, lest anyone reach any improprietous conclusions, and as both he and Elizabeth exited the door unescorted he softly whispered "Ask the Persian" before he departed.

* * *

It was very late when Elizabeth rang at the Persian's flat, and she apologized profusely. Darius had departed or retired for the evening—the Persian never could quite remember which after that evening—but he did note that twice the woman had appeared and twice it had occurred when Darius was not there to vouch for her existence. Surely his mind deceived him.

She was dressed exactly as before. Her attire was funerary. Her demeanor, somewhat desperate. _Erik was missing_.

The Persian was very suspicious. Last time he had seen this woman, if he had seen her at all, he had simply asked him for Erik's name. She'd acted uninvolved, didn't claim to know Erik, only mentioned that she'd heard that the blame had been lain upon him. Now, suddenly he was missing and she was concerned? He remembered Erik's words a few nights ago, seemingly a joke at the time, but now suddenly ringing true: _Daroga, in a strange sort of irony, it is the woman who keeps me captive this time._ Could it somehow be _true_? What could this woman possibly want with Erik? If she was really there at all, it could only be bad for Erik. If she was not, she was surely a manifestation of his guilt at having written out Erik's story and offered it to the police. This was perhaps his chance at redemption.

He claimed ignorance, but she did not believe him. She mentioned that Erik had come only a few days ago to retrieve his belongings and the Persian shivered. _I must go before she discovers my absence and comes to retrieve me_, Erik had said. He showed her out without another word, or tried to anyway. She protested all the way to the door but he insisted.

"Madam," he told her, "Erik may have done many deplorable things in his past, and he may not deserve anyone's forgiveness, but I will not turn him over to you when he has made it quite plain to me that you have been holding him against his will. I now insist that you leave here at once. I will not threaten you with the police for the fact that you are a lady and also because if I were to accuse you of abduction, I should have to say whom it was you had taken, and I have always kept Erik's secrets. Now if you please. Leave here. At once. I will not give you what you demand." He stood, pointing at the door.

There were many arguments Elizabeth could have made in response, such as that a man such as Erik was far too cunning to ever be "abducted" by anyone, let alone she, but she was so utterly wounded by his words that she allowed herself to be shown out without the grace of a reply. She stood outside the door, stunned. _Erik_ had said those things? Erik, whom Christine had described as so desperate for affection? Erik whom she had found dying and nursed to health—twice! Erik, who had sobbed the story of his mother onto her shoulder and wept into her bosom at the thought of Christine's hysteria? Erik, who had dreamed she walked through fire and thought, "I am saved at last!" at the sight of her. Erik, who had made her promise to never under any circumstances _not_ touch him.

But he was also Erik who had dragged her by the hair, Erik who had bound her, Erik who had become suddenly distant, Erik who thought she had beaten him, Erik who thought Freud was full of nonsense, and Erik, who hated himself so much he could not even be grateful she had saved his life (twice!). He was Erik who still went on his knees before Christine, and Erik who had saved broken memories of Christine. Erik, who would not share those memories with her. Erik who had always trembled and pushed her away. She slowly realized that though she had first tried only to help him and later found herself (albeit very strangely) attracted to him, he did not see the situation in the same way. He was not grateful to her, nor did he return her feelings. Still standing outside the Persian's door, she wept openly.

_I'm a prisoner then_, he'd said the night she found him in the hotel hallway and urged him back to the room. _It would be best if I went alone_, he'd said the night he went to visit the Persian. If this man was an old friend of his, why did he not want to introduce him to her, whom he'd called friend for over two months now? One possible answer was that he was, for all his frightening countenance, too polite to say how he really felt. More likely, she worried, was that she had used the power of suggestion improperly, preventing him from expressing his distaste plainly. Again, she rebuked herself. It would be best to return to Germany and forget all her grand plans for the future. And she would, soon enough. First she should perhaps complete what she had started; perhaps in that way she could repay Erik the harm she had done. Then the journey to England. Purely for curiosity, though. She would observe _only_. Then to Germany, and she would defer to Wilhelm entirely. Her heart sank at the prospect, but it was, perhaps, her only prospect now that she doubted herself so heavily. Or should she? Erik was a _man_. It was too late for _him_. Children however were quite a different story.

She pulled herself together, dried her tears and made her way back to the house Raoul had purchased for the purpose of eloping with Christine. Perhaps she had, at least, done some small good for _her_, though she quickly reminded herself that had it not been for her insistence Erik go above, Christine never would have been so alarmed; thus, it was all her own fault anyway. She began crying again and cried herself to sleep for the second night in a row over Erik.

* * *

Erik, meanwhile, was not content to wait simply for darkness. He waited until the hour became so that he was sure all respectable people would be at home in their beds, then he opened the door, crept out and carefully relocked the door behind him. A carriage for hire trotted by, and he hailed it tiredly, paying with the money that remained in his pocket and reassuring himself that it was enough to quiet any questions that might have been asked without. The driver scarcely looked at him anyway—drivers hardly ever did, he thought recalling his near-death visit to the Persian months earlier. If ever there had ever been a night that a driver might have refused a passenger, that should have been it. As it was, he reached the Opera without mishap both then and tonight.

When he reached home, he marveled that he had made the majority of the journey—or at least half of it—in broad daylight without anyone accosting him and without giving in too terribly to feelings of panic. Perhaps this was a dream, unless it was more of Elizabeth's trickery. It was ironic that she was so impressed with his sleight of hand, yet she performed a magic of her own that he had not until just now paused to consider. He let himself in hastily and, suddenly realizing that in spite of having complained repeatedly about living underground, he had been homesick all along without being fully aware. He fairly ran through the passageway and when he arrived at the house on the lake he threw himself upon the organ with a passion and a fury that far surpassed any playing he had done when he suffered at the hands of Christine.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **So Erik is not the only one wildly misinterpreting everything, eh? This is one of my beliefs about life—we seem to never really understand one another, do we?

**Stuff to think about:** So, Erik made it to the Opera safely... It still doesn't tell you what Elizabeth is planning or why the mysterious young law student? But considering what she's learned from the Persian, what will she do now?

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** Oh, please, please, please review me!!


	53. Chapter 53: An End

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note(s):** All you reviewers are fabulous. I really wanted to post a chapter for you last night, but THE POWER WENT OUT AT OUR HOUSE so I couldn't type anything. I just keep telling myself it could have been worse—I could have typed a great chapter and had it go out before I hit save... So anyway, that's why it's today instead of yesterday. You understand of course?

**Author's Special Request:** We have a terrible situation on our hands now, as the Persian will most definitely figure in more prominently in the very near future, and he remains nameless. I wonder what Leroux meant by giving us the name of Darius, the servant, but not the name of the more influential character... but rather than go into a long discussion of his possible reasons, let's just cut to the chase and solve this problem: I will need to name him. Kay called him Nadir, and it's become widely accepted throughout fanfiction that Nadir simply IS the Persian's name. But not _everyone_ agrees. I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I've created (well, am creating... I expect to have it finished a few minutes after posting this chapter!) a survey (under "polls" and I hope you all will solve this problem for me. If you click on my name to go to my profile, you should see the poll available at the top. Please go to the Persian survey and choose his name. I put quite a few choices in there--I hope it's not so many that it confuses the issue too much. Thanks in advance!

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Previously:

When he reached home, he marveled that he had made the majority of the journey—or at least half of it—in broad daylight without anyone accosting him and without giving in too terribly to feelings of panic. Perhaps this was a dream, unless it was more of Elizabeth's trickery. It was ironic that she was so impressed with his sleight of hand, yet she performed a magic of her own that he had not until just now paused to consider. He let himself in hastily and suddenly realized that in spite of having complained repeatedly about living underground, he had been homesick all along without being fully aware. He fairly ran through the passageway and when he arrived at the house on the lake he threw himself upon the organ with a passion and a fury that far surpassed any playing he had done when he suffered at the hands of Christine.

* * *

Though Erik no longer suffered at the hands of Christine, another man did. Raoul's patience for his future bride was wearing thin. Against his will, he had endured her singing lessons by the man's voice. He had suffered humiliation at the masked ball as the Red Death rampaged right past him and Christine stilled his hand. He had borne her stories of Erik's first revealing himself to her with a grim determination, but she had refused to let him take action against the monster. She insisted she loved him, but he always worried she had feelings for Erik. When he asked her the question of critical import—If Erik were attractive, would you love me?—she had carefully evaded answering by kissing him instead. Raoul had compared himself to the monster quite carefully, and though to all reasonable rationalizations he was the proper choice, he had the certain sense that he did not measure up. Somehow, music gave the other possession over her, and in the realm of music Raoul simply could not compete. His love for Christine had repeatedly pushed him into realms into which he never thought he would dare. He had contemplated suicide the night that Erik and Christine had passed in the brougham, and he had contemplated murder the day Christine told him of the way Erik behaved when she tore off his mask, but both of those paled in comparison to what he felt now.

Erik had mercilessly killed his elder brother—a man who had been a father to him. And now Christine not only would not renounce Erik, but insisted upon treating him as a friend, even after her own fear of him had sent her into lunacy. Perhaps she was not entirely recovered as Elizabeth seemed to think. Of course, Elizabeth still did not have the whole story. Raoul had not told her that he believed Erik had killed Philippe. Guilt surged through him as he realized he had lent Elizabeth the use of the house on the outskirts of town without questioning her. She had allowed Erik not only to come there, but to stay there. She had been in grave danger. Christine had been in danger as well. He had allowed it. In his grief, he hadn't been thinking clearly. He needed to think clearly. He needed to steel himself against the soft voices expressing the whims of the women, for these would surely be his downfall. Christine wanted Erik at their wedding. She wanted him to stand in her father's place. He had known Christine's father, and Erik was a poor substitute, even by any stretch of the imagination. The only thing they had in common was their affinity for music; there the similarities ended. Christine's father had been warm and kind, while Erik was a kind of untamed beast. Christine's father had thought of her well-being, while Erik selfishly dragged her off against her wishes. Erik had deceived her—something her father never would have done intentionally. To have Erik have anything to do with the wedding would be a desecration of her father's memory _in addition to_ Philippe's, whether Christine realized it or not, and he, Raoul, would not be a part of _that_.

He lay awake all night, unable to sleep for these thoughts that plagued him. Elizabeth appeared equally horrified, and yet she had done nothing, _said_ nothing to convince Christine otherwise. And he himself! He had dared to think she would tire of it like a childish game, but no! The remainder of the day it was Erik this and Erik that and if we do such and such it will make Erik more comfortable! Whose wedding was it anyway? Erik's? Raoul had fought down the urge to say something like "If you're so concerned for Erik's comfort, why don't you just marry him, then?" but now he was beginning to think that perhaps he should have said it. When he could bear to lie in bed no longer, he got up and set out to Paris, for the Valerius flat. It was early morning, before dawn. Regardless of the hour, he intended to tell Christine once and for all his feelings on the matter.

* * *

Christine had spent the night similarly in that she had not slept. She, however, had been thinking entirely opposite thoughts. Now that he was missing—and perhaps even in danger—she remembered Erik as warm and gentle. She remembered the nights beneath the Opera and envisioned herself in his arms. He held her tightly, but with tenderness. He murmured words of love in her ear. She embraced him. She shook the thoughts from her head, for they were anything but daughterly. She reimagined it more carefully. He was leading her by the hand, calling her child, touching her lightly on the head. Yes, that was Erik was she wished to remember him. Poor Erik. What had become of him? She imagined him being discovered in Elizabeth's house while she was out and felt a pang of guilt. Elizabeth had been here with _her_. They had been discussing plans for her wedding to _Raoul_. And even as Christine realized her desire to have Erik share in her joy, Erik was perhaps being brutally mishandled at the hands of—who? The citizens of Paris? Would they realize all these months later, his connection with the Opera? Or would they merely beat him out of their own fear when they saw him? But how would they have discovered him? What would they have been doing _in Elizabeth's house_ anyway? Besides, Erik was far too swift, far too intelligent, far too cunning to be caught unaware by commonfolk. That left the other option. Elizabeth had told her about the plans for the wedding and he had become upset—perhaps at the idea that she would still marry Raoul, whom he loathed, or perhaps at merely being asked to appear in public. The first left her with a difficult predicament. The second, surely Elizabeth could solve. In the meantime, Christine continued to wonder and worry. If Raoul did not arrive too early, she would go to the Opera, for though Elizabeth said she had looked there, Christine still found it difficult to believe that Elizabeth knew her way about the place. After all, she'd known nothing of the mirror in the dressing room—how could she?—until she'd told her. With the Opera unused, Erik could be _anywhere_ within it, and only she, Christine, could find him. In her mind there was a flash of an image of Erik beaten and bruised, and she was leaning over him. He would soon see that Elizabeth was not the only one willing to care for him. She shook her head again. It was nonsense to imagine he'd allow it. It was nonsense to think of it, for Raoul...

Raoul was at the door. And then he was inside. Mamma Valerius was preparing a light breakfast and Raoul was insisting that an important conversation had to be had.

"It's not that much to ask, Raoul," Christine insisted. "After all, I will have to endure a great number of members of your family who do not approve at all of this marriage."

"It is hardly the same thing. I ask you to endure a few people who cannot understand a marriage between our classes. You ask me to allow a murderer in my midst."

"Raoul, you haven't proof of that!"

"Haven't I?"

"You haven't shown a shred of it to me! And consider how I shall feel with all those eyes upon us and all your family there thinking of me as a mere opera wench and as if that were not bad enough that I have no money, no prestige, no station in life, couple all that with the fact that I have no family at all—why, Raoul, you shall humiliate your wife on your very wedding day!"

"You would come to your wedding on the arm of the murderer of your brother-in-law and it is _I_ who humiliates you?"

"Raoul, you can't prove that. Perhaps it were simply an accident."

"I heard him after the bell rang. He asked you why you were looking at him like that. He admitted being all wet. He said it was raining cats and dogs outside! Even a man as mad as he could not expect anyone to believe such nonsense. He dragged Philippe into the water and drowned him. My only brother!"

He turned from her in grief and rage and she felt powerless to sway him. Always before she had been able to change his mind with her words. And yet this morning he was relentless. He was certainly merely talking, however. He had said such things before. The night of the masquerade he had called her an opera wench and said he despised her. He had said he would die of shame at having loved her, but a moment later when she said goodbye to him for good, he had pursued her and begged her. She'd taken off her mask and when he'd looked at her again, he begged her forgiveness. As she left, he'd continued to follow until she sent him away with finality. No. He could never keep this up at the thought of losing her.

And so she tried it. "Raoul," she said firmly, "I shall have Erik stand in my father's place at my wedding, or I shall not be wed at all."

He turned slowly and when his eyes met hers, it was as though his face were made of chiseled stone. "Then that," he said with finality "Will be your worst mistake." He turned from her again, but this time toward the door, and strode purposely through it. She stood a moment, stunned at this change in him. Then she pursued him, crying his name, but to no avail. He did not even look back once.

Christine sat down and stared at the place where he had been. She didn't cry. Instead, she felt a strange mixture of surprise and—was it relief? She sat in stunned silence, consciously unaware of her own thoughts while some deeper portion of her mind turned over slowly. At length she rose and got her shawl.

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**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **I'm sorry! I know everyone wanted to see Erik in this chapter, and I'm sure you're all wondering what he's up to. All I can say is probably still at the organ. It has been weeks since he's had the chance to play... But anyway, this was another of those transition chapters. Sorry. But the next chapter should be up tonight or tomorrow to make up for it, so don't be mad.

**Stuff to think about:** Oh no! Raoul just walked out on Christine? NOW WHAT? (And was he serious? Will he be back? Tune in next time to find out!

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** (As ever...) Oh, please, please, please review me again!! **(But more importantly, please give the poor Persian a name!)**


	54. Chapter 54: Reunion

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note(s):** Here's the next chapter, as promised... I'd like to dedicate it to all the E/C fans out there. (And as you so rarely get stuff like this from me, I hope you'll savor every word.)

**Author's Special Request:** I continue to need opinions on the name of the Persian. Please help in this regard. The poor fellow desperately needs a name! And considering he's the only sane character in this whole fiasco, don't you think he truly deserves one?

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"Erik!" The soft feminine voice called gently down the corridors and passageways, echoing off moist stone walls and reverberating throughout the underground, melodically incongruous with the dark dank atmosphere. "Erik!" the voice called again after several moments. In the silence that followed there was no answer from the man, only a dripping that resonated, the soft swish of the lady's skirts and a frantic scurrying as her feet sent the resident rats scampering in fear.

She held her lantern aloft and cast her eyes to the left and right at the torches on the walls and the moisture running down the stone beneath them. Such a strange feeling it was, going down into the passageways without Erik at her side. Strange indeed, to be looking for Erik, pursuing Erik instead of the other way around. Poor, Erik, she thought, thinking of that pitiful box of treasures. Oh, poor, poor Erik, she thought, trying to get the idea of that terrible wedding through his mind. Oh, dear, unoffending Erik on his knees in the parlor. Pitiable Erik still wearing that stupid mask and declining food and drink. Oh, unfortunate Erik with such a face as he had that no one in the world could love him. Her heart overflowed easily with something she might easily mistake for love for she felt it in her chest as well as lower down, and she felt her pulse quicken and her blood stir. She cried out again and listened to his name echo all around her.

She shivered and hurried faster. She reached the small boat and stopped. She would have to do this, too, alone. It was not something she had done before. She hesitated. How very many things there were that she had not done! But she could do it. If that other woman could do it, surely she could as well. She stepped in and cried out as it rocked beneath her weight, but she found in a moment as long as she kept her feet at equal distances from the center, it remained steady. Oh, how much easier it had been to recline and let Erik do the work. She eased herself onto the small bench and grasped the oars. How very hard this was to push off from the shore! And how much heavier these oars were than they had appeared in the hands of Erik! She felt something rather like awe of him as she struggled to move the oars, found that the boat turned at strange angles and that she had such difficulty moving them both at the same time.

By the time she reached the other shore tiny beads of sweat had appeared on her upper lip and her forehead was moist as well. It was with the greatest of difficulty that she managed to set the oars in place, gather up her lantern and step out of the boat, which rocked tremendously as she moved one foot, causing her to cry out and nearly lose hold of the lantern. But she managed it somehow, without either dropping the lantern or falling into the dark waters, and as she stood on the shore catching her breath, she felt a peculiar pride in herself—something she had not felt before, save those nights when she had sung the lead at the opera. This was, perhaps, a greater achievement, for she had managed it with no natural talent, and no genius for a tutor.

When at last her breathing steadied, she moved toward the house and hesitated at the door. And it was here that for the first time, she felt afraid.

Erik was not, as she had once expected, so terrible by the light of day. As a matter of fact, sitting so properly in the parlor at the little house at tea time, he had seemed almost like any other man, except that he continued to wear that mask, and she remembered who he had been to her before. But now, she was in his domain once again. This was the place where he had taken her against her will, and this was the place where he had bound her. This was the place were Raoul and the Persian fellow had almost met their ultimate demise. She took a deep breath, then knocked.

Of course he did not answer, but she fancied she could hear music inside. Was that music, or did her memory of all the music they had shared here deceive her? She waited at the door that did not open and thought herself not a little foolish. But she must find him, and how else would one find him but to open the door. She remembered with fear the night that she had heard the bell ring and Erik had gone outside. What had he done in that time outside after the bell rang? But it was no matter to her now, for she had to find him. He would not harm her now, surely. He had said so. _How is it you do not come to understand this? Erik could never harm you!_ he had said. He had better be prepared to keep that promise, she thought, for she was putting her life entirely in his hands without fear—or rather, she was casting off her fear as much as she felt able to and ignoring that which was left. She touched the knob and nothing happened. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Nothing happened. She turned the knob, took two steps forward and opened her eyes.

This was the room as she remembered it. Flowers all around to celebrate his wedding day. _Their_ wedding day. Poor Erik. The room appeared untouched. A layer of dust lay over everything and she wondered where he had lived these past few weeks. She ran a gloved finger over a table and widened her eyes at the thickness of the dust. Poor Erik, she thought again. Oh, poor Erik. She knew where he was. He was in his room, for she could hear the music of the organ for certain now that she was inside. Why, how was it that the other said he was not here? Surely he had been here all along! Where else would he have been? Her fear suspended now for the moment, she opened the door and cried out to him. "Erik!"

The music stopped. For a moment that seemed interminable, his fingers hovered over the keys of the organ, his body bent stiffly forward where he had been reaching for a lower chord. He seemed for that moment frozen in time and then very slowly he reached down to a place beside him on the bench, then back upward and again, and she realized he had been playing without the mask. Then he stood, slowly, as though each bone moved individually from the others so that he rose up one vertebra at a time. Only when he was standing entirely erect did he begin to turn slowly, first turning his head so that he might glance at her out of the corner of his eye, then over his shoulder. Then, slowly pivoting at the waist, and finally his long legs turning at last to catch up with the rest of him. He faced her without a word and seemed to stare through her.

"Erik!" she cried out again, and her voice was an excited giggle. "I've come at last, Erik. I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but I'm here now. Are you all right?" He seemed to manage well enough until that last. Then he seemed to move back in surprise, but without taking a step. "Erik," she said again, more softly this time. "Erik, please... Say something. Tell me you're all right!" She couldn't keep the urgency out of her voice, and her pitch rose with her concern.

At last he seemed to find his voice, though it broke as he began to speak. "I am—well—Christine" he managed, then could say no more.

"Good," she breathed, holding her hand to her heart, futilely trying to stop its pounding. Everyone was worried, she wanted to tell him, but she didn't, for she wanted him to focus on her. _She_ was here. _She_ had come for him. She held out her hand tentatively and watched his eyes dart to it. "Erik, must you remain so distant always?" she asked and sensed his uneasiness as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

He couldn't answer but took a chance on moving forward towards her, watching carefully lest she show any signs of fear. When she stood her ground he allowed his feet to move him all the way to her so that they were standing face to face, she looking up into his eyes, he staring down at her in amazement. When he found his voice again he whispered "Christine, what are you doing here?"

She _smiled_. She actually smiled. _At him_. "I came for you—to find you," she said.

He closed his eyes a moment. "Say that again," he whispered.

She frowned. Surely he had heard her. And then she understood. She stood on her toes and leaned a bit closer. "I came for you," she whispered softly, turning her lips toward his ear. She heard him exhale sharply and she wondered what she was doing. This was, after all, Erik. She had fought so hard to be free of him and now... What _was_ she doing? But she had nothing to lose, after all, for she had already lost Raoul. And if Raoul discarded her so easily, then he mustn't have loved her very much, must he? No, she had nothing left to lose now and perhaps everything to gain. Erik had always claimed that he loved her as no one else could. Perhaps he spoke the truth.

Erik was staring at her in disbelief. She stared back. "You are actually here, Christine?" he asked her softly.

"Of course, I'm here," she said. "Right here." She smiled at him again.

"Forgive me," he whispered. "I have had a rather interesting day. And I have been up all night. I would not at all be surprised to be dreaming you."

"Do you dream of me, Erik?" she said softly. He declined to reply and looked away. Actually, he hadn't dreamt of her lately, but it wouldn't do to tell her that.

He turned back to the organ. "It has been a long time," he said and she wondered whether he was indicating the organ or his dreams.

"It has," she agreed, guessing he meant the music. "What shall we sing, Erik? I haven't sung anything for so very long..."

"In a bit, perhaps, Christine," he said. "I am suddenly so very tired." He sat back down on the bench at the organ, but facing away from it.

"Are you all right," she asked, bending low to see his eyes.

It was the third time she had asked that question. "Yes, Christine, why wouldn't I be? I am only tired, that is all."

She hovered, unsure whether to believe him or not. "Can I get you anything?" she tried.

His eyes narrowed at her through the mask. "What unkind trick is this, Christine?" He said it softly, but without pain. It was just a question.

"No, Erik. It's not a trick at all. Maybe I was wrong after all. Maybe you were right all along. Oh, Erik, I've behaved so terribly!" She felt she should be crying at this point, but she was not. She simply stood before him and stared into his eyes.

"No, Christine. You haven't done anything wrong. You were, perhaps confused. We have both been confused for a very long time. Do not think of it. Erik always forgives you, even when there is nothing to forgive." He slowly reached out a hand but paused inches away from her face. He was not to touch her, he knew that.

"It's okay," she said, her breath coming in gasps. "Erik."

He touched her cheek with a bony finger, and that was enough. He withdrew his hand again quietly. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at them.

"Erik," she said, going to her knees so she could see his eyes. "This is how I always hoped you would be. Gentle. Like this. Say you will always be this gentle and I will stay forever."

He stared at her. She could not see it, but his mouth had fallen slightly open behind the mask. She would stay here. Forever. What was she saying? But she was engaged to be married. "Christine. Your engagement," he managed.

She gestured with finality. "Called off."

"Oh, Christine!"

The sound was more of a moan than a cry of joy, but it was enough for her. She reached out to him. "Erik!"

He folded her into his arms and stroked her golden hair gently. "Ah, Christine," he murmured softly.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **Ah... So Christine loses Raoul and returns to her poor lonely Erik. Fitting, is it not? Ah, but now what?

**Stuff to think about:** Oh no! Now Christine is single again and underground with Erik, who, well... I mean, is Erik. What of that? What of poor Elizabeth? And what of poor Raoul? And can any of this be good for Erik? I could try to be all warm and fuzzy and wrap it up here (except most of y'all would hunt me down and kill me!) but that would not explain away the young lawyer or Elizabeth's plans for the future. (And besides, she can't really go back to Wilhelm, can she? I mean, if you knew Wilhelm the way I know Wilhelm, you wouldn't want her to...) Oh! What's a writer to do? Suggestions? :evil grin:

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** (As ever...) Reviews were scant last chapter. Then again, I didn't give you very long to get a chance to read. I did note, however, that they were highest after the chapter about the masked wedding (I can understand why) and a close second after Erik went out in the daylight (I'm slowly learning what you all like, eh?) but Raoul and Christine don't garner much reaction... Oh well. I hope this chapter has got your mind's reeling, but even if it does not, I hope you'll drop me a line or two and let me know whether you loved or hated it. Thanks!

**Additional begging on the Persian's behalf:** Oh dear god that poor man. As of this minute 18 of you have read my chapter and four of you have been kind enough to review—but only one vote appears for our dear Persian friend. Has anyone tried it and found it not to work? Or am I asking too much? Or... what's going on?


	55. Chapter 55: Deconstruction

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Special Request:** Only three votes on the issue of the Persian, but so far it looks like everyone is content with Nadir--though I must warn you, he will not necessarily automatically take on traits of Kay's Nadir, even if I call him that. Yes, he's kind, he's wonderful, he's the only sane character... but this is still Leroux-based, no matter what.

**Author's Note(s):** If you were mad at me after reading the last chapter, you will hate me now. All I ask is that you hang around and allow me a chance to redeem myself eventually. But I'm going to post it now anyway. Against my better judgment.

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**Really special note:** 6/7/2008 When I first posted this chapter, I really expected folks to be very upset with me for a variety of reasons (you'll see why) but instead, everyone reviewed positively and ONE person even sent me a link to some artwork that was partially inspired by it! (I'm so excited. I think this is the first time I've ever inspired art, even partially!)

SO, in gratitude, I'd like to invite you all to view the artist's work. (The artist, BTW, is known as Smaug the Writing Dragon on FFN and as Leroux-Phanatic on deviantart.)

FFN is a little dicey about letting us post links here, so I'm altering the link so I can get it through. Read carefully: To make this "link" work, copy and paste it into your browser, then change the word "period" to an ACTUAL period so it's like the "dot" that goes in "dot com." You'll have to add those magic internet letters h-t-t-p (without the hyphens) and the ":" followed by two forward slashes yourself because FFN won't let me. **Oh yeah, but don't look at the art until you FINISH the chapter. It's more effective this way.**

leroux-phanatic.deviantartperiodcom/art/These-Hands-of-Death-87918428

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Previously:_  
He stared at her. She could not see it, but his mouth had fallen slightly open behind the mask. She would stay here. Forever. What was she saying? But she was engaged to be married. "Christine. Your engagement," he managed._

_She gestured with finality. "Called off."_

"_Oh, Christine!" _

_The sound was more of a moan than a cry of joy, but it was enough for her. She reached out to him. "Erik!" _

_He folded her into his arms and stroked her golden hair gently. "Ah, Christine," he murmured softly._

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**And now: Chapter 55**

He held her in his arms and absently stroked her hair, saying her name again and again in disbelief. Surely it wasn't possible. And even if it were possible—well, but it wasn't! Not now! Not after... Oh, why couldn't _this_ have happened_ back then_? "Oh, poor Christine," he whispered so softly she couldn't make out the words. "Poor sweet _child_..." he whispered.

"Oh, do let's sing, Erik. Surely you are not so very tired!"

"We might—" he said haltingly, "if you like—" He paused. Even as he thought it, a part of him hated himself for suggesting it, and yet another part of him knew that it was absolutely necessary, regardless of what it might do to her. "Would you—consider—something from—_Othello_, then?"

She looked at him with resignation. How could he ask for that, she wondered. It had been so terrible for them both! But she heard herself helplessly agree. "Yes, Erik. If you like." How could she refuse him now, when she had nothing else left?

He slowly pivoted on the organ bench to face the instrument again and she moved to stand beside it so they could face one another. It is wrong, he thought. You must tell her _first_. But even as he thought it, his fingers danced across the keys and she began to sing.

She sang _Desdemona_. She was sure he could hear that her voice was entirely wrong, for she sang it with _joy_. She could not disguise her elation to be singing with him again, regardless of the words she sang. As for him, he had not a bit of trouble with his part; he was always able to summon emotions such as love, jealousy and hatred. If she had thought he _was_ Othello the first time the sang it together, she did not know what to think this time, for the feelings were still more raw, still more real than they had been before.

She moved closer to him and met his eyes as they neared the part of the song where the terrible tragedy had occurred. What did he expect of her now? Was she to do as she should have done the first time: respect his privacy and his space--_leave that mask where it was_? Or was she to do as she had done but react differently? And _could she do it_? Could she bear it? Had she changed so much from that day only three months ago?

She had not the time to decide what she should do, however, for as they arrived at the critical measure he drew up his left hand and suddenly cast off the mask without missing a note. What could the poor girl do but continue to sing? She had seen such horrors before—she had seem _him _before. She had known what to expect. And her heart went out to the poor man who dared to bare himself this way before her, and she continued to sing as though nothing had happened. A moment later she dared to take a step closer to him, and as they came to the close, she was mere inches away.

When the music ended they were both breathless with emotion. She wore the same tight-lipped smile she had the afternoon she had first come to tea. He cast his eyes downward, still too ashamed to meet her gaze. But she had not screamed, he had not cried out in anguish, and he had _finished_ the song. _The past was undone. _He felt his breathing become labored and fought it off. He would not cry in front of her again. Not now. Not after... He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He reached for the mask, but he had inadvertently flung it to the floor in an effort to keep playing smoothly.

She touched his hand, whispered his name. He glanced up at her, but only for an instant. "Thank you for this, Christine" he said, struggling to retain his composure. "This was—most—cathartic."

She thought her heart would overflow and she moved closer still, keeping her eyes downcast. "You don't need to thank me, Erik," she began, but he silenced her.

"Oh, but I _do_, Christine. _And_ apologize. I am so sorry Christine!" He still fought tears that threatened to fall, and he hated that she could see his bare face if she looked. Yet it seemed she chose not to look. He could hardly blame her, and this time, he didn't even wish that she could. For if she could look at him without horror, _what would he do then_? For it was too late to change things.

Her hand was still upon his, and he gripped it with both of his. Her hand was so soft, so warm. "Oh Christine, words cannot express how sorry I am!" But she could not possibly understand, and he had to make her understand. She should not have given up anything for him. He didn't want her to anymore. He would never ask anything of her again! "Oh poor Christine!"

"Erik, how can you say that when I am here with you? How can you say that when things are finally as they should be?"

"As they _should_ be?" His voice should be full of wonder or full of joy, but instead it sounded filled with dread, and she could not understand why.

"Erik, what ever is the matter?" she finally managed to ask.

"Oh, Christine, sweet Christine," he said softly. "What were you thinking to call off your wedding to a _Comte_ for _this_?" He gestured. And though his voice remained gentle, after singing Othello, when he spoke the word "this" it was hard not to remember _that_ night. _Perhaps you think I have another mask, eh, and that this... _this_... my head is a mask?_ She shuddered slightly. She knew with his gesture he indicated his face, and she realized with sorrow the guilt he naturally felt that she would leave a normal life with a normal husband for him. She sighed heavily trembled, turned away.

He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes from arm's length away. "You are all right Christine?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'll be fine. Just, Erik, please don't say such things about yourself!" she said. "And do not feel guilty about the wedding. I didn't call it off at all, actually. Raoul did." He blinked. Raoul? The Vicomte—no, Comte de Chagny? He had _called off the wedding_? Why? Oh, poor Christine!

She dared to glance at him for an instant, saw the surprise in his eyes and sought to correct what she'd said, for it sounded terrible, as if she'd come to him only because... "...when I said that I expected you to be there."

There was silence. He sat as though stunned a moment, then he repeated "You expected me to be there? Why would you expect me to be there?" Surely she didn't think he would carry her off from her own wedding! And yet, he had given her cause to think such things, had he not? "Christine, I told you that you are entirely free. I would never, ever—" and then he stopped, for though he would not meet her gaze, he could make out her expression in his peripheral vision and it suggested that he'd misunderstood something.

"No, Erik. I _wanted_ you there!" She flung herself into his arms before he realized it and it seemed the most natural thing to do to embrace her and stroke her hair as one might to comfort a crying child.

He was more confused than before. "Wanted me there? Whatever for?"

"Oh, it was stupid anyway and I'm sorry," she said shaking her head against his chest. "I don't know what I was thinking except that he has all his family and I have no one at all save Mamma Valerius and... and... perhaps... a couple of... chorus girls... and _you_."

Silence.

"Erik, surely Elizabeth told you. She _asked_ you. That is why you left, is it not? Because you were not willing—" She hesitated and looked up at him. He was frowning at her and though his expressions were hard to read due to the strangeness of his face, it seemed to be a confused frown, not an angry glare.

Behind the frown, Erik was thinking of Elizabeth. She had asked him nothing of any consequence in a very long time. And there was something strange between them that he could not sort out. He would not ruin her life. She had been kinder to him than anyone had in a very long time. She did not deserve jealousy and manipulation. But he _would_ need to talk to her at some point, for she confused him terribly. She always wanted him to say his feelings aloud, yet he didn't think she herself did so very often. If she had told him up front that there was someone in her life--ah, but she had! That young doctor. And she had _refused him_. Then what of the letter, so full of love? He must ask her. She might be upset he had read it, but she would likely pretend not to be. Had she ever admitted being upset with him? No... But it was too much to think about now, here, with Christine in his arms pressing her head against his chest this way! He would spend some time down here, then perhaps he would go above to sort things out. In the meantime, what could Christine possibly be talking about?

"Continue," he told Christine, still confused. And when she did not, he said, "Christine, I do not understand what you have said to me."

"Then... you didn't leave... because you didn't... because you weren't... willing... to... give me away?"

He was still confused, but he chuckled at the thought of it. "Christine," he said "That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard. Give you—Well, I never _had_ you—" and then he stopped as the true meaning of the words finally reached him. He drew her away and held her at arms length. "Christine," he said, and though his voice was soft it held a tone of horrified surprise. Perhaps he should have felt honored, but the thought giving her away of so soon after learning that he had to let her go was physically sickening. "You would ask me _to do that_?"

She looked away, bit her lip, tried not to cry, unsuccessfully. "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry. It was so utterly stupid of me—"

He waited until she met his eyes again and continued "Christine, I have already done that once and it nearly destroyed me. I cannot—I will not attempt to—do it again."

She nodded miserably. "But you wouldn't have to now anyway," she said sniffling. "The wedding is called off, remember? And if you like, I will stay here with you..."

He stared at her, reality slowly dawning on him. "Christine," he said slowly "You would only come to Erik when another cast you off?" He paused in thought. She had not even waited a day but come straight here, so sure... "When _that boy_ abandoned you, you came back to your poor hideous Erik. Terrible, ugly Erik, so alone... so _pathetic_ he would become a poor dog ready to die at your feet for you... This is what _I_ _am_ to you?" He knew it was true for he had allowed it to happen. He had made himself out to be a dog; how could she think of him as anything more?

She refused to meet his eyes. She shut hers tightly and waited for the anger she knew so well to erupt. She would be ready this time, if he threw her to the floor or dragged her across the room. She could not stop it from happening, but she could perhaps minimize the pain, if she was prepared. She tensed her muscles, waited for blows.

"And you fear me yet!" he said. There was no anger, just something like utter exasperation, and he released her. "Christine," he said, "I have told you time and again _I could never hurt you_!" He stood and walked away from her, leaving her on the floor beside the organ bench, unable to speak. He paced the floor until the words came to him. "Christine, it was wrong of me to ever pursue you. You were merely a child... still are in very many ways, actually. It seems you don't understand at all." He paused in his pacing and looked directly at her. "You are _not trying_ to hurt me, are you?" He said it with a soft wonder as though he had never before considered that possibility.

She looked up at him. "No, Erik, of course not! I would never try to hurt you!" she sobbed heavily now.

"Poor child," he said trying to lift her. "You really have no idea what you have done to all of us, do you?"

She looked up miserably. Could that really be Erik standing over her? Had he just called her _child_? She pulled away from him and on her own got to her feet in anger. "How do you call me child?" she cried "When you,"—she could barely bring herself to say the terrible word—"_lusted_ after me, panting and groaning that it was love?" and she drew back her hand as though to slap him. Bony fingers closed upon her wrist and stilled her movement.

He saw the fear in her eyes as he held her. "I'll not harm you, Christine. _I never would_. Perhaps you cannot help what you do to me and I will forgive that, but there are limits, Christine, and I will not be struck like an animal." He saw clearly that she wouldn't dare, and he released her and stepped away. "I will always care for you, Christine, and you have done wonders for me these past few weeks. But it is best if you go now. This," he gestured between them, "was never meant to be."

He was asking her _to leave_? _Erik _was asking _her _to leave? She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She had come here expecting to find him hurt and sobbing. She had expected he would welcome her with open arms. He knew he was not worthy of her—he had said it so many times!—and he would be so grateful to her for coming to him. And now he dared to ask her to leave? The man that _everyone called a monster_ was turning _her _away?

Poor Christine. She had been utterly rejected twice in one day by the only two men alive for whom she had ever cared. She could not help what she did next, and as Erik forgave her in the next instant, perhaps the reader can find it in his heart to do so as well.

She advanced upon him angrily. "You want me to leave? You dare to tell me to leave? Oh, I shall leave Erik. I shall leave you to your complete and utter misery. For what else shall you have here in this worthless unused building? What else shall you have with your gruesome face and your corpse of a body? You and your hideous hands that reek of death!"

She saw the pain in his eyes and on his hideous bare face, and it gave her power. "You didn't know _that_ did you? I was always too kind to tell you that your hideous skeletal hands smell like the_ grave_? Well, they do!" She saw his surprise. Was it possible he _had not even known_? "Yes, that's right Erik, your _hands_ smell of _death_. _All _of you reeks of the grave, but especially your _hands_!"

He backed away from her. She looked upon his trembling form and knew she had gone too far, but as hot tears of humiliation spilled over her cheeks she heard herself continue, her voice soaring to pitches and volumes she had not intended. "I lied to you, Erik. _Every _time I shivered in your presence it was because of your repulsive face, save when it was due to your deathlike hands. It's a wonder you believed any of it. I am not _that good_ an actress, after all. _No one_ is _that good_ an actress. And to think I burned your mask!" She scoffed. He seemed to shrink before her eyes.

He uttered not a word in his own defense. But it was somehow _not enough_ and though some still small voice in her mind whispered that this was wrong, wrong, _wrong_, she simply _could not stop_. She took another step towards him and fancied she saw fear in his eyes.

"You were a fool"—she spat the words at him—"to think I—or anyone else—could _ever _marry you, for you are as cold as the corpse you appear to be and what woman could bear to embrace a dead body?" She had taken him apart, piece by piece, from the opera house, to his appearance, to his odor, to his faith in her, to his dreams of humanity and normalcy. She started toward the door. He wanted her to leave. Oh, yes, she would leave, alright!

But still, it was not enough. And then she hit upon it—the blow that finished him. At the door she turned and called to him across the room, "But you _were_ right about _one_ thing, Erik. I was _wrong_ about Elizabeth. That's right. _I was wrong_. Elizabeth _pities_ you, Erik." She put her hand on the doorknob. "She—pities you. Nothing more." The door opened and slammed shut again and she was gone.

She trembled with resentment and rage as she rowed the small vessel back toward the other shore. She cried hot angry tears as she ran upward toward the light of day again. As she reached the surface, she began to realize what she had done, but it was too late. There was no going back.

Erik had remained on his feet, his arms hanging limply at his sides, until she slammed out the door, but when she was gone he sank to the floor. "It's not true?" he whispered. It was a question, a plea, but there was no one there to answer him. He looked at his hands in numb shock for a moment, then he wept with such heart wrenching sobs as the world has never heard.

When at last he finished, hours later, he dragged himself up from the floor and set to work to bar every passageway that led to the house on the lake. In one, he placed a locking gate to which he alone possessed the key, for despite his agony he had no desire to wall himself up in a self-made prison. The other passageways, however, he blocked easily with stone and mortar.

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**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **Oh! Forgive me!

**Stuff to think about:** I don't imagine it's necessary to direct your attention anywhere, is it?

**Shameless Begging for reviews: **If you can even bear the thought of me, I'd appreciate a review. And I am--SO--utterly sorry!


	56. Chapter 56: The Day After

_**Standard Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around._

_**Author's Note(s):**__ So glad you guys aren't going to kill me for chapter 55. This one's a bit weaker. Seems I can't turn out two in a row like that; I don't know why. Sorry if this chapter doesn't contain much substance, but I thought we needed a bit of an angst-break anyway. Cheers!_

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Elizabeth dragged herself from her bed late in the afternoon. She couldn't remember a time she had stayed in bed so late in the day since years earlier when her son had died. She shuffled into the kitchen, already beginning to cry again now that she was awake and able to think of him. What bothered her the most was that he had not said goodbye. It left her wondering too many things. She wondered why he had left and where he had gone, but most of all she wondered how he was feeling, for his chronic melancholia reminded her too much of the days after Jacob had died and she feared that ultimately he would someday work up the so-called "courage" to take his own life, forever depriving the world of his genius—and herself of his company.

She moved mechanically around the kitchen and eventually found herself at the table staring into rather than drinking a cup of tea. Both Raoul and the Persian had been unable (or unwilling in the case of the latter) to help her find Erik. She would visit the Opera again soon enough, in case he returned, but she also wondered whether he might return here. It all depended on what was going through his mind, and that was something she didn't bother to delude herself that she knew. He was beyond complex. She liked to imagine that perhaps there was a shred of a chance she would understand it all if only he would make the attempt to explain it to her; after all, everything he _had_ said to her had made perfect sense enough under the circumstances. It seemed it was she who did not make sense to him. He was forever misunderstanding her, misinterpreting her, overreacting to her.

She searched her memory for what he might have misunderstood now that could make him leave. Her last interaction with him was the day he'd given those terrible treasures to Christine. She remembered it well. When it was over, he'd attempted to walk to the door, but Christine sent her away to speak to Elizabeth alone. Could that have angered him? When she finished assuring Christine that she would visit tomorrow as long as she could be finished in time for an appointment she'd made, she returned to the parlor to find it empty. His door was closed and locked, and when she spoke his name, he failed to respond. Could he have been gone already at that time?

But no! She had seen him again later that evening, though briefly. He had been quiet and reserved. As had become his custom since they left the Opera basement, he had left his mask firmly in place during the evening meal. When she finished eating, he carried his plate to his room and ate alone in there. She hadn't even tried to persuade him otherwise. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps there was too much silence involving the mask. She had first gazed upon him without it and he had gone about without it until the ill-fated night of the carriage ride. From that night forward, she had not seen his face, save for just a part of it at a time when she absolutely needed to lift it to coax him into swallowing the codeine. She wouldn't fight him while he was delirious, and when he was well again, she was too focused on the issue of Christine. She should have addressed the issue of the mask directly, let him know he didn't need it in front of her, in fact, that seeing it troubled her far more than seeing him. He'd eaten every meal alone. She told herself she allowed it for his comfort, but now that she thought back on it, it felt wrong. Meals were social times, and he always dined alone.

He would be alone now as well, for he had made it plain that he trusted no one, except perhaps the Persian man, but he was not with him. Unless he _was_ there. The man _had_ shown her out rather abruptly. But then, why had Erik left _here_?

She forced herself to focus. He had been so fixated on those items in that box. He had carried it around the entire day in a gentle arm as though it were a living thing—like a child with a doll, really, and he had pestered her about Christine's visit, also like a child. He had threatened to go out and arrange a meeting himself if she did not. Yes! He had threatened to go out in the daylight. He had been thinking of it already! But it didn't provide much of a clue as to why he chose to do so the _next_ day after the meeting had already been had, unless he wished to see her again. Yet he hadn't gone to her flat, and she hadn't seen him.

Elizabeth thought back on the pathetic treasures. Twice now, she had felt utterly humiliated on his behalf—the first time when he crawled to Christine and the second when she saw what lay inside that box. If her shame by proxy was so great, what must his have been? How difficult must it have been to sit there before Christine as she thanked him for the gloves, discarded the other items as meaningless and all but accused him of reading her private letters. The heat rose to Elizabeth's cheeks as she thought of it again, and she realized that she hadn't done anything at all to assuage his shame surrounding the whole situation. She had said nothing. At the time, she wrote it off as respecting his privacy, but now that she thought back, perhaps it looked as though she had ceased to care! As strange as it sounded to think it, things had been far better in the Opera cellars. Yes. In the cellars he had gone about without the mask, and in the cellars she repeatedly challenged his ideas and dared him to confront his feelings. Above ground, the reverse was true. She blamed the mask, for when she could see his face, it was always easy to be tender. With the emotion hidden, it was easier not to notice... but it was not an excuse, and she knew it. Erik was gone, alone now with those emotions, and she had done nothing—_nothing_!

And here she sat yet again, doing nothing, staring blankly into a cup of tea that had gone cold before she managed to take a single sip. She left it where it was and forced herself to return to the bedroom to properly dress to go out. There was a trip to England to plan, with or without Erik, after all. And before that could be done, there was a visit to the Opera—to the upper levels of the Opera—that had to occur. There was another visit to with young Monsieur Leroux at the cafe, and a telegraph to her brother that needed to be arranged. And at the very least, while she was at the Opera, she might steal down below and leave a note in Erik's home—for she strongly suspected that no matter where he had gone in the interim, he would definitely return. She would put the note on the keys of the organ, for how could he possibly fail to see it _there_?

The following day she visited the Opera with her letter to Erik carefully hidden away in her pocket. It read:

Erik,  
Please forgive my intrusion into your private domain.  
After our time here together, it feels somewhat natural  
to come and go, though I know I mustn't without your  
consent. I hope you will forgive me. It is of great  
importance that I speak with you right away. Regarding  
whatever caused you to leave, for the moment, please  
do not think on it. I must see you. I simply must speak  
with you. If I have done something wrong, I will make it  
right if you will allow. If you ever considered me your  
friend at all, please meet me on the rotunda side by the  
place where we exited with the carriage. As I do not  
know when you will find this message, I will visit each  
night at midnight for a week. I will be entirely discreet  
and will keep you but a moment, unless you wish  
otherwise. Should we be unable to connect, I will leave  
further instructions should you wish to contact me.  
Affectionately,  
Elizabeth

She carried it with her in her pocket but encountered much difficulty in delivering it. Her first obstacle was the constant hovering and clinging of Moncharmin and Richard from the moment she arrived until a brief moment _just_ as she left. They pushed mounds of paperwork at her: management agreements, governmental contracts, deeds, tax records, an enormous ledger. She pretended to look at them, running a gloved finger along beneath the words, shaking her head, clucking her tongue.

"A purchase," she said "is simply that. A purchase. If I were to proceed with this, I don't think I could bear all this governmental involvement. Taxes are a necessary evil, of course, but a management agreement? Forgive me gentlemen, but I thought you were businessmen. A manager is paid. One does not have to make a payment to become a manager. Is the city of Paris finished with this place or not? I daresay I've been here three months, and I've not had opportunity to attend an opera for you've got the place all but boarded up. What's this nonsense now, Nationale Academie indeed? And all the debt that comes with it. If the debt goes away, so do the privileges, you know. What fool would take this on under such restrictions?"

The men looked at one another. It wasn't their deal, after all. They were only _managers_. "No, no..." she continued. "This won't do at all. You've put my name here... and here. And look, here, too. How presumptuous to assume!"

They looked at one another again. Then she did have a husband? She hadn't said so! Who else's name could they possibly have used? But they would not ask, for she spoke as though they should have known, and they could not allow themselves to be corrected by a woman! But whatever did she mean? They simply stared at one another.

"Oh! Goodness! Look at that. Ridiculous. Is it that you think women don't read or simply that we're too dull to notice a poor deal when we see one? All right." She stood. "I think we're finished here. You men are certainly doing a fine job with the Opera. I suppose you should keep it, ghost and all." She turned to go.

Behind her, both of their mouths dropped open and they stared at one another, then each gestured to the other to stop her, and their lips worked frantically mouthing "Stop her" and "No, you stop her" then "Say something" and "No, you say something" to one another until at last Moncharmin lost to Richard, as he quite often did, and called out "What did you say about a ghost?" and Richard shoved his arm harshly as though it were the wrong thing to say. "Well, what would you have said?" he hissed, then put on his most gentlemanly smile as Elizabeth turned around to face him.

"Oh, Monsieur, let's not go about pretending there is no ghost."

Moncharmin glanced at Richard to save him.

"There isn't." Richard said.

It wasn't much of a rescue, thought Moncharmin and quickly added "—anymore."

"Right," said Richard. "He's dead now."

She nodded solemnly. "Ah. The ghost has died then. Terribly sad," she said.

Was she mocking them? Well, it was true they weren't making any sense... "There wasn't really a ghost."

"It was a—well, they say a man, really—"

"Who _pretended_ to be a ghost."

"Right."

"Ah, yes," she said with a touch of sarcasm. "I've heard of such things. Men who pretend to be ghosts. Yes, of course! Why hadn't I thought of it? But a man who makes chandeliers fall? How did he manage it?"

They exchanged glances again. That had happened before she was here. Curse Parisian gossip!

"A mere—"

"—accident, really."

"Indeed. Just the most terrible thing, really—"

"And the man found hanged in the cellars?" They were both smiling their most gentlemanly insincere smiles, but her face was blank and emotionless.

"That was—"

"Terrible."

"A suicide, actually."

She folded her arms and nodded. "Do those happen frequently around here?"

They looked at one another again. Had she no sense of decorum?

"How many people _have_ died here?"

They exchanged glances yet again. Did she really expect them to _answer_ that?

"It's all right gentleman. You don't have to convince me. There is no ghost. There never was one. As I don't believe in them in the slightest, I don't have any trouble with the idea that there never was. So then, if there isn't one, why don't you keep it then? Should be easy enough to convince the Parisian public, no?"

She turned to go again.

"All right, look!" It was Richard and he was glaring harshly at Moncharmin for not saying something first. "What you're talking about—it would take quite a lot more money."

Elizabeth moved carefully back into the office, shuffled the papers neatly into a stack and held them to herself. "Send word when you have a figure, gentlemen. I'll be in town but another week."

"But you're" Moncharmin called pointing, "you're taking our—documents."

"Yes," she replied absently beginning down the hallway towards the exit.

"Er... You know we need those back," he cried after her helplessly.

"Whatever for? They're incorrect. Feel free to save yourselves and your secretaries the time and effort. I'll be sure to have everything drawn up correctly if the figure is adequate."

The two men fought silently over who was to chase her down the hall, but Moncharmin, tired of always giving in, doggedly refused this time, and Richard, never one to give in, did the same. In the end no one pursued her, and in this way, she was able to find her way through hallway after hallway instead of out of doors. Quite a lot more money indeed, she thought indignantly. What did they hope to do? Line their pockets and bankrupt her? But it didn't matter. It was a farce and she knew it. It had been a last hopeless bid to try to find Erik only, and with that in mind, she retraced her steps from her first visit here.

At long last she found her way to the wings beside the stage, then to the staircase, and then down, down into the darkness as she had three months earlier to place her note to Erik. With any luck, he'd have returned by now, and if he had, she would tell him everything without mincing words as she had that night. No more clouded revelations spoken quietly to him during feverish deliriums. Of course he hadn't responded, hadn't even understood. She hadn't given him the chance to. She'd been so unsure at the time. She hadn't really even known him well at all. Of course, she still hadn't known him so very long, but his sudden absence had made her suddenly sure. She tucked the papers under one arm and quickened her pace, lifting her long skirts with both hands so she could run.

But suddenly she reached a dead end. Had she taken a wrong turn? Surely this was the same passageway. She turned back, squinting in the dim light. She retraced her steps. She could not have taken a wrong turn for there _had not been a turn to take_. Puzzled, she went to the wall again, then back. Perhaps there was another staircase like the one she had come down. Perhaps she was on the wrong side of the stage. Perhaps she had confused this passageway with the rotunda and the Rue Scribe. Perplexed, she turned and made her way back up and out. She would return at night and try her memory at the Rue Scribe passageway. Surely she had merely been flustered and forgotten the seldom-used passageway after her meeting with the managers. Tonight she would be successful.

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_**Shameless Begging for reviews: **__Please? (As I said, this one feels weak. Encourage me?) Seriously, folks! It seems like the "exciting" chapters get reviews and the transitory ones don't, and I understand why that is, but it throws me off. I start thinking "maybe they didn't get to read it yet" and then I see all the hits and go "What gives?" And I still know... We're all more likely to review when something spectacular happens... but you would even leave me a note like "Yes, but what's going on with Erik?" or something, so I know you're still interested. (I know... I must seem TERRIBLY insecure. You'd think I'd be over that after all the nice things you've said... but I'm not. Oh well.)  
_

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**Quick responses to non-logged in reviewers, in case you don't check back to the reviews page:**

Dernhelm: I actually liked Chapter 55 quite a bit as well, in terms of having pulled it off... but then I felt guilty for what I'd done to him. Terrible, really... but I knew that those who hate an E/C pairing would love 55. And of course, I wrote 54 with those who love an E/C pairing in mind. I'm fickle. At least I admit it.

Samantha: Well, yes, she's standing up for herself... but she's got a long way to go. She didn't have to resort to such cruelty! I can only rationalize a little bit and say that maybe each is getting a taste of what the other felt. He felt excessive humiliation at the hands of her and others and reacted with anger and by exercising harsh control over her. Now she actually feels the humiliation and look! She handles it no better than he! In fact, she turns to anger and abuse after so much less provocation. But she's young. She'll grow up (we can hope).

anonymous at chapter 54: Really? That makes me SO HAPPY! (I mean, I'm sorry you're angry enough to want to kill Christine, but then, that IS the reaction I was going for, wasn't it? No one really believed me when I said "Perhaps the reader can find it in his heart to forgive her as well" did he? And you mean you already wanted to kill her HERE at chapter _54_? When all she did was go to him? Uh oh... you'll really be upset next chapter...

anonymous at chapter 55: Yes, he was doing so well... Pity she destroyed him, though, isn't it? I mean, three months (and 130,000 words!) of work, down the drain and back to square one! (If you think you're upset, imagine if you were me. I had to create the therapist and do all the typing and now in about two minutes Christine has undone all our progress! The rotten little...

Anonymous the III at chapter 55: I don't know... a tipsy review might be fun, don't you think? FFN bleeps out the obcenities, so it's not like you could say anything you'd regret! :-) I really appreciate your comments. I often get hooked on what I'm reading--both here and in actually published stuff--but it's so exciting to think that someone _else_ is hooked on something _I_ wrote. I don't think there's a better feeling in the world. Say--did you actually get to VOTE on the poll for the Persian not having a name? I don't see any votes for that--just a couple for Nadir and one for another name. If you have a penname, you can vote if you log in. It doesn't tell me who voted for what, just how many votes there are. If you didn't vote, I just have to remember to add in your vote mentally (or log in as me and put it in).

Say... does anyone know whether a person can vote more than once? I have two votes--one for Nadir and one for no name at all--that I need to record for folks who can't log in.

And finally, does anyone know where Silver Diva is? I hope we didn't lose her. I think after her reaction to chapter 54, she'll like chapter 55 (or at least the beginning of it... I imagine she'll want to kill Christine at the end...)

_Okay. That's it for now. Love y'all. Peace, out._


	57. Chapter 57: Solitary

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**On behalf of the Persian:** Last chance to vote for the Persian's name because after this chapter (as you'll see in just a moment) he's going to figure in more often. So far, the preference seems to be for calling him Nadir, but only eight people have voted, so it's not like it's a true consensus. Even so, this is about the last chapter I can get by this way, so I've got to go with what I have at this point. Last chance!

**Author's Note(s):** Hey everyone! I'm really sorry that it's taken me this long to get this chapter out. I went to Pennsylvania for my college reunion, and while I was here, I ran into my ex-fiance, had dinner with my brother and took him to see the new Indiana Jones movie (can you believe in 32 years as siblings, we've NEVER been to a movie together before?!) had lunch with my dad and visited his office for the first time since he took this new job, then met up with my only real friend from undergrad and spent about six hours walking around campus with her talking about old times. It's been a GREAT trip, but there hasn't been nearly as much time to write as I had hoped. Tomorrow there is a brunch and then a visit with the Sisters of Charity (I went to a Catholic college) and then I THINK I'm free until supper and the ghost tour (yes; our college is haunted. This year, the alumni have finally decided to make an attraction of it. It's about darn time if you ask me!) PS: There are spiders in the dorms; So far I've seen one small one and one large one. Having just finished Kay's _Phantom_ on the plane, I don't have the heart do anything about them. (sigh)

AND I had a 4000 word chapter, but it didn't seem so cohesive, so I'm posting the first 1400 words or so now and I'll put the rest up either in an hour if I can stay up that long or in about eight hours when I wake up in the morning. Sorry this one is the short one…

* * *

Elizabeth's luck did not improve substantially that evening or the following day. After dark, she tried the other two passageways with which she was acquainted with the same result. When she reached a wall at the end of the first one without having made any unusual turns she easily reached the most logical conclusion, but her mind raced with questions of when and why and how these changes had been made, whether Erik had walled himself in or whether he had walled everyone, self included, out. She rather suspected that he was inside, but there was nothing she could do. She followed the other hope passageway because she expected a different result, but rather to confirm what she already knew. She made her way slowly down as far as she could without hope and confirmed her fears. Her once-friend was lost to her forever.

Her usually calm demeanor broke and she ran through passageways turning first one direction and then another, all the while screaming his name as loud as she could until her voice failed and her throat ached, and even then she continued to call, more softly, more hopelessly, but no less frantically as she roamed about.

No one can maintain an hysterical state indefinitely, however, and she was no exception. Eventually, she calmed again and became rational enough to realize that she was hopelessly lost. Worse yet, even if she could find her way to a place she recognized, there would be no point in leaving the note there, for if Erik was on the other side of the wall, it was not likely he would exit and reenter to wander the passageways looking for notes. She sat down on the stone floor and cried heartily. From time to time she fancied she heard sounds around her and looked up, half-expecting—hoping, really—to see him standing over her looking down at her in concern and confusion, but when she looked up there was only darkness, flickering shadows, and emptiness. At length she grasped as the masonry of the wall and pulled herself to her feet. She put her hand against the wall to her right followed the length of it until it opened to the night air again. She found herself outside in an area she had not previously been before and wondered how many varied entrances and exits there were in the place. As it was at present, she would never come any closer to knowing than she already had, for only Erik knew the answer to that question, and it appeared she would never see him again.

When she at last reached the house on the outskirts of the city, her heart leapt with joy to see a note attached to the door. But the note was from Christine and only indicated a need to ask Elizabeth something important. She sighed, went inside and spent a third night crying and near-sleepless. Though she could eventually accept the finality of the end of their strange relationship, whatever it was, there was something else about the situation that bothered her. Something did not make sense.

Toward dawn it occurred to her to wonder what purpose Erik might have in walling himself _in_. It seemed very few people knew the passages, and if he had merely asked her not to return, she would have complied. He had already admitted to her the "necessity of going to the surface for supplies" so unless he expected to die quite soon, it made no sense to wall himself in entirely. That meant there had to be a passage about which she did not know still in use somewhere. It occurred to her suddenly that the week she has kept watch outside his door following the carriage ride he had somehow gone above and stood beneath Christine's window each night. There was, then, an exit she had not previously considered one end of which was the room with the coffin in it. All that remained to be done was find the other end of that passage and determine whether an additional wall had been built within that one or not. And there might be still others. There might be countless others. Considering the labyrinth of twisting and turning corridors in which she had been lost the night before, there were dozens. Maybe scores.

* * *

Meanwhile, Erik had taken advantage of his solitude take stock of his situation. The passage he had left merely locked rather than blocked entirely allowed him access to a north-south passageway that would grant him the ability to exit the Opera entirely to visit the markets, or to simply go above and roam about the abandoned structure when no one else was around. Having not been here for the better part of a month and a half, he knew there were no supplies, but he did not have the heart for going out just then. Fortunately, he didn't feel he needed anything at the moment, save a distraction from his ordeal with Christine. He wanted above to the interior of the Opera and roamed its many corridors, stairways and grand halls. Even as he told himself he needed a distraction, he allowed himself to think of what had occurred with Christine.

While he climbed upward he replayed the situation in his mind over and over. He had been pleased to see her. Surprised, oh yes, but pleased. He had shown it, hadn't he? He had held her, stroked her hair. Ordinarily, he would have rebuked himself in the harshest way for daring to touch her and laid all the blame for what followed upon himself for breaking that cardinal rule, but she had thrust herself into his arms, surprising him as well as throwing him off balance. What else could he do but hold her? Surely he wasn't expected to push her away? She asked to sing and he had agreed. True, he has suggested Othello, and she had looked rather horrified at the prospect, but it seemed so necessary at the time, and she had sung through it beautifully, if a little more happily than appropriate. He had taken off the mask again. Why? All those years he had not done so in front of anyone, and now he had allowed himself to be tempted so many times. What foolishness! Did he think he looked any better? Or that people had grown more tolerant? Surely the reverse was true of both! But she had not been upset at that, not yet. She had told him of the cancelled wedding and stated she intended to stay with him. With him! Oh, yes, _now_ she will stay when it is far too late, he thought bitterly. And then her arm was up over her head and he was certain she was about to strike him in the face. How had he provoked her? Wasn't this what they had asked of him? To _not_ go upon his knees begging her? And yet when he did not, it was also wrong. Hang them all, he was through trying!

With a start he realized that he was dwelling upon it rather than distracting himself. He went further upward thinking to distance himself from the place where their last exchange had occurred, but as he went up, he passed through areas associated with other memories as well. The further he went in search of a distraction again, the more he continued to dwell on the past, connecting what she had at last revealed yesterday with other things she had said about him in the time she spent with Raoul in upper portions of the Opera. He continued this pattern of seeking distraction then turning his thoughts back to the past until he had utterly tormented himself with the repetition of yesterday's scene over and over again. Each time he considered things he could have tried differently, but nothing—save physical violence on his part—seemed likely to have avoided the inevitable. At last he fell to remembering every detail of what she had said, scrutinizing the veracity of each item. She had begun with unused building, hideous face and corpselike body. As she had begun with the truth, it seemed unlikely she would begin to lie midway through. He therefore concluded, as he reached the roof of the Opera, that everything she said was true. Reaching the roof suddenly reminded him of what she had to Raoul about how she dreaded to see him by the light of day. It was a good thing he had not tried taking the mask off during the time at the house on the outskirts of the city. That would have spelled disaster he thought, looking down at the streets of the city below.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **Well, we didn't really expect Elizabeth's luck to improve much, did we? Too bad she's not inside now, since he's out and roaming about.

**Stuff to think about:** Why the roof, Erik?

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** Last chapter there were hardly ANY reviews! I know it wasn't that interesting, but was it THAT BAD? :sniff: Please consider making a comment—even if it's just that this chapter isn't that good. I'd rather have criticism than have to wonder what you thought…

**Reminder:** Don't forget the Persian.


	58. Chapter 58: We

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**On behalf of the Persian:** Okay, I lied. It wasn't the last chance because I didn't manage to work in an introduction yet. (Seems a bit awkward now, doesn't it? Maybe that's what happened to Leroux…) Anyway, if you still want to vote, go for it.

**Author's Note(s):** Okay… here is the remainder of what I typed the other day that wasn't ready to post. It's _still_ not that ready, but what can I do. You guys need something to read, right?

**Unrelated stuff:** _(feel free to skip this part if you're not interested. It has nothing to do with this story or with POTO per se, but I just need to tell someone this right away.)_

This morning I complained because people stayed up VERY late in the kitchenette across from my room and then other people went in there VERY early. End result, I get no sleep. So, I complain. And I get my room moved. But, there are very few rooms left available. There is one across from the bathroom. So I say sure, that's great. I won't have to walk so far. Another staff member comes over and says "that is one of the rooms we're not supposed to assign." I say "Why?" And she ignores me. She tells the other lady the same thing over again. I say "Is there something wrong with it? Honestly, I'm leaving at 4 a.m. I don't care if something doesn't function or whatever." The other lady says "Maybe it's not made up yet. Let's go look" and the lady who doesn't want the room assigned looks upset. The room IS made up. I say it's acceptable and move my stuff. I'm quite pleased. Then the weather got bad (coincidence. It also rained this morning) and as the wind blows, I remember how we all used to say the school was haunted blah blah blah. I like the whistling sound. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights. I was typing along quite nicely until the window blew up. I re-latched it and laughed about how much that would have scared me a few years ago. I set up my video camera and recorded a little intro about the architecture of the building and the patterns of the wind, then I put the video camera on the windowsill (because no one I know ever believes me when I tell them that the structure of this building is such that the wind literally HOWLS around it. It does. I've recorded it now. Of course, the sky is clear now and the birds are singing, but for a moment during the storm it occurred to me to wonder if there was some superstitious reason for not assigning this room. I almost wish there was. I'd love to have a last little bit of excitement before I have to fly home.

Incidentally, I suddenly can't find my boarding passes for the flights tomorrow. I had them this morning and now they are gone. They aren't in my old room, either. Weird.

* * *

**And now: CHAPTER 58!**

The morning found Elizabeth once again at the door of the dark-skinned gentleman from Persia. He received her with polite indifference, but allowed her to enter his home and invited her to sit. He immediately informed her, however, that he had not seen Erik, had not heard from him, and that if he had, he would not become an informant in any regard; he had left those days behind him long ago.

Of course, he still could not understand the connection between the woman and Erik, but he didn't ask. He could not understand what power she had somehow managed to exercise over him considering his many skills and talents and her seeming lack thereof, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He would not take the chance, would not betray Erik's confidences. He simply told her no.

"I understand about keeping confidences," she told him. "It is why I have not told you everything _I_ know. But you say you keep his confidences _entirely_ and yet you gave me information about him once before easily enough."

"As soon as I learned he lives, I regretted having shared so much as a word. Perhaps you can understand why I am all the more unwilling to divulge any more. Or would be, if I _had_ any information." He sighed deeply. "The only information I have would be of no value as I have not seen him since the night you knew I had seen him."

She pretended to accept his answer and continued the conversation casually. Perhaps if she revealed something, he would do the same. And if he cared at all for Erik, perhaps especially once he understood her intentions. In the meantime, why was he so certain she was out to do him harm? And _why had Erik suggested that_ to him? "He returned that night with a box of items to return to Christine Daaé," she said.

"He returned to you? Then you have seen him more recently than I."

"Yes. He returned late and was rather enamored with the box itself. I heard of nothing but Christine for several days. When he saw her, he gave her the contents of the box. He disappeared the following morning. Or, sometime the following day. I don't know, exactly. I was out visiting Christine." He noticed she suddenly looked still more upset.

"You say he gave them _back_ to her?" He looked perplexed.

"Yes. Why? Is that significant?"

"How did he manage to get to her?" He seemed _very_ concerned

"We had her visit for tea that afternoon," she sighed as if she regretted something about it.

A moment elapsed in which nothing was said. The Persian opened his mouth and closed it again without a sound. At length he managed "tea?" rather weekly. Erik's words echoed in his mind. _I came here to invite you to tea one afternoon next week. _Tea. Tea! Erik doesn't even drink tea! (Does he?) What absolute absurdity! But now tea had been mentioned twice…. He was so impressed by the idea of tea that he noticed only in the deepest recesses of his mind that Elizabeth used the word "we" in reference to herself and Erik rather comfortably. She was staring at him now, and he realized his emotions must show on his face.

It was difficult to make conversation without revealing anything, and the issue of tea seemed to be something that could not possibly cause any harm, so he offered, "He invited me to tea the following week the night he visited me."

If he had thought the issue of tea was insignificant, he revised his opinion entirely in the next moment for the woman's face lit up in a sudden smile, then suddenly her eyes filled with tears and she stared hard at the ceiling of his abode with such ferocity that he glanced up to see whether there might be something of interest up there at which to look. Finally he asked, "What signifies tea?" in a tone that might be described as timid.

She reined in her emotions and replied quietly "Once, over tea, I had suggested he needed more than one—or even two—friends. His response was a glare, so I didn't address it again, but apparently the idea was not lost on him."

It was the man's turn to restrain his emotions this time. "And he thought of me," he said quietly. Then, after a pause, "Yes, I guess that would make some sense, after all. So few have been even civil to him over the years…."

"Yes," replied she. And they sat in silence again.

At last, he broke their reverie. He was still incredulous. "He had Christine _Daaé_ to _tea_? And she _came_ to tea? Willingly?"

"There is a great deal more involved than simply inviting her and having her arrive, but ultimately, yes. She came to tea. Willingly. Three times, actually."

He laughed aloud. "And no one got hurt?"

It was a joke, and the simplest response was, _Amazingly, no,_ but that response would not move this conversation where it needed to go. "No one was physically hurt during or after tea," she said carefully.

He allowed this to sink in for a moment, then asked, "Which? How?"

She shook her head. "Erik was distant after returning those items to Christine. I don't know his feelings; I didn't ask. It was very foolish of me not to."

He frowned. He was thinking that he would have thought it more foolish _to_ ask, but there was apparently much he did not understand about what had occurred over the last three weeks. He had gleaned quite a bit from the conversation so far, however, and he hadn't had to reveal anything to her other than that he'd been invited to tea, which seemed a small and insignificant thing.

"So very foolish!" she continued with apparent anger now. "I was so wrapped up in dealing with her I forgot him entirely. How do you think that looked?" It was rhetorical. "I'll tell you how it looked," she went on. "It looked like I thought she was more important than he was. So after he returned her belongings, _he left._"

"Well, then it seems you have your answer. If he simply left, you can likely surmise where he went from what you know of him. No?"

She changed the subject. "Did you know what the box contained?"

He shrugged. "Do you?"

"He presented them to her in my presence."

"I am surprised he was willing to part with them at all." There was silence again as the two regarded one another with guarded suspicion. Each wondered how much the other knew, whether it was safe to reveal more, what the other's intentions were. Neither named the items in the box or what their significance might have been. He changed the subject this time. "Why do you want to find him so badly?" he asked at last.

She sighed. "There are two reasons: the one I know I can tell you and the one I am not sure I can ever tell anyone."

"The one you can tell me?"

"I am worried what he will do if left to his own devices."

"Ah. We have that in common then. It's not an easy task, keeping Erik from doing harm, is it? So you've taken over for me during the time I believed he was deceased?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "There have been so many references to Erik hurting others that if it were not for other physical descriptors I would begin to wonder if we are acquainted with the same Erik. What is it he _did_?"

He shrugged to indicate he wasn't sharing that information, and she looked away. "Based on the Erik I knew, I was more concerned about him hurting himself."

The man paled a bit at this and looked at her carefully. "Indeed?"

She nodded, unwilling to speak for the moment, for she was fighting tears.

"And the other?"

"Other?" she managed.

"The other reason. What was the other reason? You said you had two."

She took a deep breath, pushed down her feelings and responded carefully. "The other reason is rather less important than the first. But even so, you must tell no one."

"Agreed."

"Not even Erik, for assuming the first concern is not an issue, he would perhaps be angry with me."

He raised his eyebrows, looked wary.

"He tells me he accepts no charity, but I worry about his ability to care for himself… Where he'll go, if he can remain where he is safely…"

She doubted Erik's ability to survive? How did she think he'd managed this long? Yet there was irony in her phrasing. It was true. Erik did not seem to "care for himself" at all. Meanwhile, the woman produced a document from her pocket and handed it to him without opening it. She watched him with a look of remorse while unfolded it skeptically, his dark eyes scanning back and forth across the page with doubt and suspicion, and finally lightening as he understood. "You would arrange this?" he began doubtfully.

"I would try to. That is another reason not to mention it to a soul. I don't have the greatest confidence I can manage it. The only factor in my favor is that there are some in the present government who still view it as a monument to the Empire. In the meantime, though, I have run up against some walls, both figuratively and literally. I have assistance with the figurative ones for the present. But it seems that Erik has walled himself into the Opera basement."

_And this is news?_ he thought. "How much do you know of Erik and the Opera?" Apparently, she knew far less than she claimed if she didn't realize he _lived_ there.

"I mean literally _walled_. I mean that the passageway by which I used to come and go is now blocked by a wall that was not there previously. Nor the other two, either."

This was something new then! She knew of the passageways, and she had not been harmed, apparently, so Erik allowed her to come and go as she pleased—until recently. But Erik allowed no one to simply come and go! Even Christine, when she was given a key, had been given very precise instructions! Oh, how much he had missed in believing Erik dead. Perhaps if Erik had realized how simple it was to lose his Persian tracker he would have faked his own death years earlier. "The passageway you used?"

"On the Rotunda side by the stables. But the Rue Scribe is blocked as well. And another that I reached through inside, beneath the dressing rooms. "

Then she _did_ know. She _had_ been there.

"The Comte de Chagny seemed to believe you could be of assistance to me in finding Erik. It seems he has reason to believe that you know things that no one else knows regarding the passageways… finding your way about…."

His face darkened and his eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you asking of me?"

"Any assistance at all."

"If you are suggesting sneaking into Erik's home—"

"I know. That sounds so dreadfully dishonest doesn't it?"

"That does not begin to describe it! It is not a question of honesty, Madame. I once attempted to enter Erik's home without his knowledge and, as I value my life, I'll not try it again."

Elizabeth vaguely remembered Christine's comment about nearly drowning Raoul and this man, though she could not begin to fathom it. She nodded anyway. "I understand," she said softly, even though she didn't.

She was staring at the ceiling again. What _was_ so interesting up there, he wondered. She looked so terribly unhappy that at last he could not contain his curiosity. "Why _are_ you doing this?"

Her lips trembled. "These past few months have been absolutely terrible for him. You have no idea and I—I cannot tell you! Oh, but I had hoped never to reveal anything at all of him to anyone and now that I have and I hate it, but what else can I do? I can turn to no one for no one knows he is there at all, save you!"

It wasn't an answer to his question. And yet _it was_. She was upset by whatever had troubled _Erik_. Could it be? She was on the verge of tears. She must...

"And after the ordeal with the box of treasures, I should have talked to him. I should have asked him—but I didn't, and now it is too late and this"—she shoved the paperwork aside roughly—"is not what is important. Can you see? I don't know what he is thinking now… the way he left I suspect he's unhappy…" She trailed off.

She was talking nonsense now. Of course he was unhappy. Erik had so little about which to feel joy. "Have you known him to be otherwise?"

"Does it mean he doesn't deserve to be?"

They sat in silence again. While she remembered the time beneath the Opera when she had been able to focus on only him, her companion reflected on more of Erik's words. _It seems you cannot possibly accept that I have changed in the time since you knew me. _Erik change? It seemed so unlikely, and yet she had said that if it weren't for his appearance she would question whether it was the same man. _As a matter of fact, I am quite changed, you know,_ Erik had said. He had taken it as more of Erik's pretense and self-delusions, but now he doubted himself. _It seems unlikely you would wish to drink tea with the monster you seem to still believe I am_. Oh dear. Erik ceased to call himself a monster—but attributed the title to _his_ thoughts instead? _I will relieve you of my presence, then."_ It was his indicating he was leaving the flat. Or perhaps it was more.

While he consciously processed this, the word "we" from earlier in the conversation resurfaced in connection with tea and he sought to return the conversation to tea to see if it would happen again. "Where was this tea to which Christine was invited?"

"At our—" she stopped. She had been about to say _at our home_. She revised her answer "At the place where we were staying."

_Our_. _We_. His brow was furrowed as his eyes scrutinized her closely. "I think I might consider finding a way to deliver your message, _if_ I can. There are certain risks involved and limits to where I am willing to go, so I'm not promising anything."

"Might I go with you?"

He shook his head.

"I wrote a letter," she suggested instead, holding it out to him.

"I am quite curious to see this other Erik of whom you speak," he said softly, taking the letter.

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **Damn! Still not enough about Erik, right? Sorry… you'll just have to hang in there. He's being difficult to work with at present.

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** Many thanks to all those who reviewed. Is there anyone out there who has read the entire thing and NEVER reviewed? If so, could you send me a PM (or drop a review) and let me know that you're here (and still here) because I see hits, but for all I know, it could be one person hitting reload about 1,000 times, right? Okay… 'sall for now. Love y'all!


	59. Chapter 59: Reverie

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. In this chapter there is a reference to the Persian as "Nadir" so I need to mention that the use of that name in reference to this character comes from Susan Kay. The Persian that appears here is my take on the original Leroux character and the name Nadir is used solely at the request of readers who were comfortable with it because of their familiarity with Susan Kay's book. In this fanfic, the past between Erik and Nadir is not necessarily what was described in Kay's novel. A reader needs to keep in mind that I consider myself a Leroux purist for purposes of this fic, and that the name Nadir is used only for their convenience.

**Author's Note(s):** Sorry about Erik's failure to appear last chapter and the one before. He wasn't feeling well enough to appear after chapter 55, which entirely sapped his strength, but he's back in chapter 59, even if a little wilted. Hang in there and try to understand...

**Unrelated stuff:** I am so totally upset with the Kay novel not turning out to be what I had expected it to be. I am consoling myself with the idea that we all have the right to write whatever we choose and that is just her take on things. I had honestly hoped, though, that she would leave the original Leroux intact and simply fill in the blanks. Instead, she filled in blanks but changed quite a lot of what was already there, which made me sad. I'd go back and do what I wish she had done, but I can't because I was perfectly content with Erik's birth through the point at which Erik first sees Christine. At any rate, I was sad, sad, sad (to quote the Rolling Stones). Oh well. _These things do happen_.

* * *

Erik had remained on the roof all night, alternately gazing up at the myriad of stars above and down at the lights of the city below. At last, his troubled mind found temporary peace lying on his back gazing upward into the circling points of light. It wouldn't last, of course. Nothing good ever did. But it was a moment's relief, and he accepted it easily as an old man with a free soul accepts death.

When a faint glow spread its warmth on the horizon to the east, he got to his knees to watch. It had been years—decades even—since he had watched a sunrise, and he had somehow forgotten its splendor. The few thin clouds hovering on the horizon turned a dazzling shade of orange as their edges seemed to catch fire. Golden rays shot forth and then subsided again as the clouds shifted. The reddish crescent that appeared on the horizon slowly grew in size and lightened to glistening gold that shimmered as the sky transformed from black to purple and at last to the brilliant azure of morning. As the entire sphere emerged from beneath the edge of the earth, he shielded his eyes and looked away, for after the years spent in darkness, his eyes could not bear the radiance.

With eyes closed he turned his unmasked face upward and felt the warmth upon his bare skin. How wonderful it felt! Oh! To be able to feel the sun on his upturned face, a simple pleasure most took for granted which he had forever been denied, like so many other things in life. He was alone atop his glorious monument in the center of Paris, the most beautiful city, watching dawn break in the most breathtaking spectacle—and he alone marred the brilliance of it all.

Opening his eyes, he looked down from the sunrise to the buildings at the horizon, then scanned the space between it and the Opera. He examined the intersection of Rue Gluck and Rue Halevy with minimal interest, then let his eyes run over the sidewalks, the street lamps, the brilliant statues and domed roof beneath him... and back to the pavement directly below.

He quickly gauged the distance from the roof to the ground, considered the velocity of a human body, estimated the force of the impact he would make and easily determined that he would be entirely unrecognizable when he reached the bottom. Even so, it would be prudent to go headfirst. _Face_ first. It wouldn't be difficult to manage, either by leaping, or by simply leaning over too far and kicking free of the roof beneath him. Why had he not thought of it before? When he lay in the coffin in the cellar dying, suddenly realizing that Christine wasn't returning to bury him, he had been horrified by the idea of someone else finding him and unmasking his dead body while was still recognizable—humiliation, even in death, as though he had not borne enough of it in life. He could not allow it. But why had he not thought of _this_? It was the perfect solution. The fall would do more than decimate his face. It would shatter his bones. There would be no identifying the bloody mess that would result on the pavement. It was so simple!

Christine would likely have known, though. It would have made her placing the ring on his finger and burying him far more difficult (not that she had bothered to try anyway) impossible, really. He'd have to have been scraped off the pavement! And she would know it was he if he did it now. She would feel terribly bad about that, wouldn't she? She would remember that the last words she had said to him were cruel ones, even though they were true. Yes, even the truth could be left unsaid for kindness's sake, but she chose to speak it aloud, and she would be sorry now. She would blame herself. But it would give her power over him—more power than she already had, and she did not deserve _that_. No. He would never let her have power over him again. It would have been far better if he had jumped the first time she'd left.

Instead, he had written a letter to Elizabeth—though she was not yet Elizabeth to him then. She was an intruder that in a cruel twist of fate he mistook for Christine, merely a woman whom he could perhaps bribe to dispose of his body. At that critical moment, it was unfortunate that his mind had failed him before his body. Had he been thinking a little more clearly, he would have saved everyone quite a bit of trouble. Christine would be married to Raoul by now, and Elizabeth would not have wasted—what, _months?_—of her life trying to… well… do whatever it was she had hoped to accomplish with him. Ah, if only he'd thought of it then!

He leaned over the edge now, looking down, wondering idly where exactly he would land if he leaped over the edge. He wouldn't do it now, though. Oh no. Such an event must be better planned. But even as he mused on planning it, he realized that the failure of his mental faculties wasn't truly the reason he had not come here that night. He calculated the amount if time it would take to reach the pavement. An instant, really, but enough time in which to change his mind and be powerless to reverse the decision. He contemplated the nerve structure of the body and wondered whether there would be time for it to register the pain before it ceased to register anything forever. But even as he occupied his mind with these figures, he knew none of these were the reason he had not jumped off the top of the building long ago. True, he hadn't _thought_ of it, but also true was he didn't actually want to die. Despite the impossibility of it, he still wanted what he had always wanted—a wife, a simple flat… in short, to be like everyone else. A _life_. And he reflected that though he knew he wanted to be like everyone else, he could not be more specific than that, for he was not entirely sure what everyone else did, how they lived, what their lives were like, he had so long lived apart from them. Death was an alternative since his dream was unattainable, but he could not bring himself to slip over the edge—not yet! It was rather pathetic, he told himself. He was certain that it was impossible, and yet he held out for the hope. Perhaps it was really cowardice, fear of the possible pain involved in dying.

It occurred to him how close he had come to his dream. He'd lived in a small house above the ground with a woman who treated him like a human being—with kindness, even!—and seemed to enjoy his company. It was the closest such as he would ever come to a wife and a flat of his own, and yet he had been first too ill and then too _distracted_ by Christine to enjoy it, even for a moment. In _this_ he was just like they were! They passed on the street with their wives and their families, their friends and their belonging, utterly indifferent to things that should have filled them with such joy, and he detested them for it. Yet when he had a brief chance to enjoy something that vaguely resembled it, he had missed it entirely. What a bitter irony that in this alone he was just like everyone else. He vowed to himself that he were ever again given the opportunity, he would relish it as he had always thought he would, and an instant later he renounced the vow. He would not allow himself to hope and dream such things anymore. And if it did happen, he would probably fail to appreciate it anyway.

The sun was climbing higher now and despite his perch high above the city where no one would see him, he began to feel uneasy after long years living only in shadows. He felt a wave of sorrow that he had allowed himself to be conditioned so. Should a sudden miracle occur making him look like anyone else, he would still be condemned to his misery now by his fears. It was time to go below now, back to the cellar where he belonged. He took one last glance over the edge where a few lone figures had emerged early from their homes to walk along the streets toward the markets. Even at this great distance, _that_ figure stood out. Could it be? Yes, there was no mistaking the physique and the gait of Nadir, the daroga of Mandazeran.

He closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. It had been a mistake to visit him, to reveal that he was still alive. Now, unless he chose to swiftly end his life, he would have to endure the trailing Persian everywhere he went. Not that he went anywhere much anymore, but even so! Oh, Christine had been his downfall once again. Why had he taken it into his head that he needed to return those items to Christine? Christine and Elizabeth both, actually, for somehow it had occurred to him that he would impress Elizabeth… but he had seen her disgust when she saw the sorry treasures. He had hoped she would see that he was finally parting with his obsession with Christine, but instead she had seen him as a foolish child who collected trinkets and trash. He couldn't face her. It was a good thing she had someone else in her life, though, for with that knowledge firmly fixed in his mind, he couldn't risk thinking she had an interest in _him_. It had seemed that way at times, had it not?

But he could not think on it now, for he observed his old acquaintance not just walking by but looking closely, walking up the steps… Suddenly, he was out of view, too close to the building below. Well, he would be rather surprised, wouldn't he, when he found every entrance blocked with thick masonry? Well, let him be surprised. He didn't owe him anything anyway. He was a part of the world, and that world was exactly what Erik had intended to wall out permanently and entirely.

* * *

**BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: **Everyone happy to see Erik again? (Sorry. I know. Once again, not a lot of action. I promise, it's coming soon enough. Bear with me.)

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** How many are still out there? How many are planning to come back for more? How many are glad it's summer and I can update far more often now?


	60. Chapter 60: Walls

**Standard Disclaimer(s):** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

The name "Nadir" is used in this story solely at the request of readers (who were encouraged to vote!) because it is familiar to them. The Persian who exists in this story is the man from Leroux's _POTO_, not Kay's _Phantom_, so please don't assume a past that isn't necessarily there. If it isn't mentioned in Leroux, it didn't happen until I tell you it did. Take nothing for granted.

**Author's Note(s):** No specific notes on this chapter. Oh well!

**Unrelated stuff:** I only have one more day of work and then I am off for the summer. (That's not _entirely_ off, as I have family obligations, days of working voluntarily, cleaning my house, working out and having a friend from abroad visit, but at least I don't have to report at 7:45 a.m. and stay until 4:00 p.m. anymore!) Yay! (right?)

* * *

Until the moment he encountered Erik's masonry work, Nadir had doubted the veracity of Elizabeth's claims, assuming instead that she had simply gotten lost in the maze of passageways that twisted and turned so that even the most seasoned navigator lost himself entirely. Reaching that first stone wall caused him to revise his opinions on a number of matters, the foremost being her concept of the reality of the situation. Indeed, Erik had not walled off merely those three passageways with which she had been acquainted. There were additional walls seemingly everywhere—even places that Nadir had not realized led to Erik's lair—causing him to lose himself repeatedly in the course of his explorations.

When he had almost certainly reached the conclusion that Erik had walled up every passage, walling himself in—probably to die—he quite accidentally happened upon two large iron grates that were attached to the masonry with heavy hinges and to each other with an elaborate locking mechanism with which Nadir had neither the tools nor the expertise to tamper. Ironically, the thought crossed Nadir's mind that if Erik were here, Erik could get pick the lock rather swiftly. But Erik was, apparently, the one who had placed it here with the intention that no one get through it except himself.

Nadir looked about, walked the length of the passageway again, and memorized his location carefully. He had never been _here_ before. He wondered exactly where this gate, when opened, led. Ultimately, it had to reach Erik's home, but _what part_ of Erik's home was the question. Was this gate in place to allow Erik an exit, or was it placed here intentionally so that someone might encounter it, determine to open it, and follow the passageway to which it led into a conveniently set trap?

He remembered with a shudder the hole in the wall between the set piece and the scene from Roi de Lahore where Joseph Buquet was found, his squeezing through it with the Vicomte de Chagny directly behind him, and dropping through another forbidding hole into what he expected to be Erik's house. He was seized with a sudden dread and resolved not to even consider opening _this_ grate or exploring the area to which _it_ led. He was about to turn and flee when he remembered Elizabeth's letter to Erik. He could leave it _here_. If this was the passage Erik intended to use when he needed to go above for supplies, he would encounter the letter when he next ascended. If it were not, the letter would simply remain here, unread, but no one would come to any harm. He might even consider returning to see whether the letter was still there and in this way determine whether Erik himself actually used the passageway. He tucked the letter carefully between the two iron grates.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the Persian, Elizabeth's letter stated that she would attempt to meet Erik every night at midnight for a week at the hidden entrance by the rotunda, and without knowing whether he had successfully delivered it or not, she faithfully went there under cover of the night to wait for him beginning the night that followed the day in which she gave him the letter. If she had seemed funerary upon first encountering the Opera some three months ago, she was far moreso now. Her expression was vacant, her movements mechanical, her countenance crestfallen. The next night she was still more sorrowful for she had spoken with the Persian and learned that the letter had not been delivered directly but rather left where he hoped that Erik might find it. His manner was such that she easily surmised that he did not entertain much hope at all. Each night after that she she approached the Opera and looked around to ensure she was not seen, then slipped into the secret entrance had shown her the night of the ill-fated carriage ride. She waited inside by the light of her lantern fully thirty minutes at minimum. When she left, it was with a dejected posture and a slow gait which gradually degraded as the nights progressed and it became closer to the time at which she had previously determined she would leave.

One afternoon, three days into the progression of the week that was to be Elizabeth's last in Paris, Christine called and pleaded that they might meet briefly, for she was out of sorts and needed a fresh perspective. Without emotion, Elizabeth let her in and ushered her to the parlor, which seemed curiously vacant without their usual third party. They sat. Elizabeth neglected the tea, and Christine thought nothing of it.

"My engagement has been cancelled," Christine said simply, though her eyes indicated that there was nothing simple about it.

"Indeed?"

She nodded.

Elizabeth was filled with an emotion that might have been sorrow, but she didn't bother to name it. "Has the reason to do with Erik?" she asked flatly.

"I suppose in part," Christine replied. "Raoul was terribly upset about my wish for Erik to be involved. It led to an argument, and ultimately, to the end of the engagement."

"I'm sorry." She didn't particularly look sorry, but Christine could forgive her that. She looked, actually, rather tired, as though she'd been up late at night for many nights in a row.

_I did something terrible._ But she couldn't bring herself to say it. _Elizabeth, I said hateful things to Erik. I said things such as I have never said to anyone!_ But she remained silent. _I called him a corpse. I told him he smelt of death. I told him I had never loved him—that no one had ever loved him._ A sound like a sob escaped her and Elizabeth looked over in concern from what might have been a daydream. _I called the Opera worthless._ Oh, how that must have wounded him! _I called him hideous. And gruesome. Skeletal, deathlike, repulsive, unloved... pitiable._ She bit her white lip until it turned red and bled a little. _I said you didn't care for him._ "Have you ever said something to someone that was very wrong?" It was the best she could do. She was so utterly ashamed.

"Oh, I am certain I have. It is something everyone does at one time or another."

She let out a sigh of relief.

"What does one do to correct it?"

Elizabeth cocked her head to one side. Christine had surely offended her fiance fiercely if the doting young man had suddenly canceled their engagement! "One... apologizes," she said softly.

"Does it work?"

Elizabeth smiled weakly at her innocence. "Sometimes," she said.

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then one lives with the consequences of one's choices."

"And if someone does something drastic and rash as a result?"

Surely she was thinking that a called-off marriage was too serious a reaction for whatever she had said or done. "Sometimes, we have to live with that."

Her eyes were vacant. Christine shifted uncomfortably against the back of the settee. Elizabeth was decidedly less helpful than she had been before, she thought with irritation. She was distant, cold, aloof. She scarcely looked at her. Christine considered the possible implications. Elizabeth was angry with her. And what reason could she possibly have for that, unless... Unless she already knew about the situation with Erik. Yes, that would explain her indifference, her desire for Christine to simply live with the consequences of her actions. Who was she to take Erik from her? How could she, not even a musician of any kind, possibly understand Erik? "Have you managed to find Erik yet," she asked, adopting an innocent tone.

Elizabeth would have welcomed a change of subject to anything else. "No." She sounded as though she was suffering beneath a heavy weight.

"You should check the Opera again," Christine said with great hesitation. She didn't want Elizabeth to know what she had said to Erik, but deep inside she worried that she had gone to far, and she wondered if Elizabeth could clean up her mistake.

"He's walled off every passage," Elizabeth said in a dead tone.

"Walled?" Christine was breathless. He'd walled himself in! Now when he died, she would not be able to get inside to bury him, and she would be back in the same place she had been at the beginning of this terrible nightmare, except this time she would not have Raoul to help her.

"Elizabeth," she said in a harsh whisper, "You _must_ go to him!"

Yes, yes, that's what she was trying to do! What did she expect her to do, walk through walls? A moment earlier she had been desperately trying to determine _how_ to get through one of those walls without involving anyone other than the Persian, but suddenly, she didn't want to _have to_ do anything. "Christine, there is nothing that I absolutely _must_ do. If Erik wishes not to see me, I'll neither beg nor insist." A moment earlier she had been wistfully hoping for a way to connect with him but she suddenly was resolved to leave, even immediately, without returning to the rotunda for the remaining four nights. The only reason she did not act upon those feelings was that she still, after all that had occurred in Paris, considered herself someone who kept her word, and she would not give up that image of herself for pride or anger.

"But Elizabeth," Christine began again in a tone like a whine, and Elizabeth cut her off.

"Christine, you assured me you were certain. You assured me you had made your choice. Yet you waver at every turn. As soon as you made the choice to marry Raoul you immediately began working to assign Erik another role in your life and it forces me to wonder if you chose to marry Raoul and retain Erik in some other capacity only because it could not be done the other way around. Now you have perhaps lost them both for all your efforts. You simply must learn to make choices, stand by them, live with the consequences. I've given in to you too long for you to be able to learn that from me, so you'll have to learn it on your own."

Christine stared in dumbstruck horror. It was the _third person_ in _five days_ who turned her away in this manner! Suddenly, the whole world had turned its back upon her without warning and without reason. She stood, gathered her skirts about her and went to the door.

"Goodbye, Christine," Elizabeth called, too disheartened by the situation with Erik to make the effort to stop her. And it was truly goodbye for Elizabeth was leaving for England in only four days; they were unlikely to ever see one another again.

That night Elizabeth made the long journey back to the Opera out of obligation rather than out of desire to see Erik. During the ride it occurred to her that if she did encounter him, she would not know what to say. Worse, she was in such low spirits that she rather expected another terrible misunderstanding in which he would look upon her, see her unpleasant expression, blame himself, and disappear. She was fortunate, however—or perhaps unfortunate. In any case, Erik did not appear that night.

In fact, that night, the fourth night Elizabeth waited, Erik had not yet even received her message. That day he had spent on the roof, for though he had walled off all the passageways into the underground, he had not taken any precautions with the Opera proper. Should Nadir have arranged to meet a manager—or anyone else with a key (or anyone who could pick a lock, for that matter)—he ran the risk of being seen on his way back to the cellars. Instead, he stayed where he was. It was the safest most secluded place; after all, there was no chance Nadir would ever look for him on the roof.

* * *

That night he returned to the cellars in search of supper only to find that he had absolutely nothing from which to fashion anything edible. He cursed the time he'd spent above ground, allowing Elizabeth to persuade him to eat multiple times a day, for he'd gotten somewhat used to the regularity her schedule provided. Now, as he returned to his own regimen of generally not bothering about meals at all until common sense rather than any desire for food prompted him to eat something for the purpose of sustenance only, he felt a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach in addition to the constant ache that was caused by the depth of his emotions. Simply put, he suffered ravenous hunger pangs that drove him, cloaked and masked with a sack over his shoulder, above ground to the markets.

He forgot his hunger for a moment, however, when he paused to unlock the gate. Something was stuck in the gate, between the two grates. At first he simply plucked it out of the way and was about to drop it, but its appearance stopped him. It was fine stationary, neatly folded and placed very carefully between the grates so as not to fall loose and not to be missed. He leaned against the wall and frowned a little beneath the mask as he unfolded it and peered at very neat and very slanted script. A letter. From Elizabeth. He read it once then thrust it into his pocket disdainfully and tried to pretend it did not exist.

_Forgive my intrusion_. How many more intrusions were there going to be? First Christine, then Nadir, now her! Who was next? The _Comte_ de _Chagny_? His lips twisted into a grim smile. If so, he would be sure to greet him appropriately and repay him for what he had done to Christine. The stupid fool! Impertinent! All of them, entirely lacking in manners, coming down here uninvited! Why didn't they just _leave him alone_?

_If you ever considered me your friend at all._ Considered. She had said considered. If you considered me your friend. Not simply I am your friend. He scowled.

_Each night at midnight for a week!_ How long had this letter been here? He had placed the grating at least five days ago! If she had come the next day, it would mean he had only tonight and tomorrow to see her, and he wasn't ready in the least! He certainly could not see her _now_, not _tonight_! Not _like this_! Tomorrow? Perhaps, but doubtful. He wasn't ready. He needed time to be ready. _Time_.

_If we do not connect._ Ah. A safety. A caveat. An alternate plan. That would do nicely if he could not get it together by tomorrow. Yes. He could wait for her further instructions and... well, he didn't know just what he would do yet, but to wait seemed to be a good first step. She would likely leave said instructions in the same place. Yet, how had she managed to find this place? It was not one of her regular passageways. It was, in fact, one of the most obscure; he had purposely chosen this one for that reason. _No one_ knew where it was, and it was dreadfully difficult to find. For that reason, he seldom used it himself as he often found himself going too far down a particular passage and missing this tunnel entirely. No, there was no way she could have found it alone. Yet there was the letter, plain as day. There was no way she could have found it at all, not even with help! No one on earth, he was certain, could have found this passage without prior knowledge of the tunnels, and not the mere cursory knowledge that Elizabeth had. No... No one alive save perhaps Nadir could have found this place.

Nadir! Curse him! They were somehow working together! Ah, yes. Nadir could not get through the iron gate so he got Elizabeth to write this very enticing note to lure him from the ground at which time Nadir would—well, he didn't know what Nadir was up to, really, but it couldn't be anything pleasant. Perhaps he was at last going to pay for the death of Comte Philippe, Raoul's elder brother. It was ironic that this death, the one which he had not truly intended and which had not been entirely his fault would be the one for which he was at last put to death. It didn't matter, though. One life in exchange for another. He _had_ killed, hadn't he? Did it matter whether he committed _this_ crime? He was not _innocent_ after all. Whatever they pinned on him, it would be far less than what he was actually guilty of. It would be just. The worst irony of all, though, was that he would pay for it _now_, after he thought that there had been hope he could change. Well, he would pay for nothing if they did not find him, and unless he complied with the wishes of this letter, they could not.

As he continued up the passageway toward the surface, he reflected on Elizabeth's role in this ordeal. Why had she ever visited Nadir in the first place? Or had he contacted her _first_? If so, how had he discovered any connection between the two of them? And if she was a willing participant, why had she chosen to betray him? She had been so kind to him before... unless it was all an act. A very elaborate act at that, he thought to himself, nodding. When had it begun? When they moved to the little house? When he first began to stay at her hotel? When she persuaded him to go out in the carriage? Or had it been that very first time she knelt beside the coffin and uttered those strange words? After all, her story that she had simply been exploring beneath the Opera was odd at best. That she had been sent there was far more believable. His heart pounded with horror at the recognition. If she had been working with Nadir all along, he had been in grave danger and had not even noticed it! His powers of perception must be slipping and along with it any hope of self-preservation. He was not as vigilant as he once was. In fact, in her presence, he had not been watchful at all. What had she _done_ to him?

Emerging from the shadows, he glanced skyward. He would have to hurry to market and back rapidly, for his path took him past the rotunda entrance; if she arrived early, or if he was unforeseeably detained, he might encounter her as she waited for him.

* * *

**Shameless Begging for reviews:** Some things never change. I still beg for your reviews and still get a little jolt that feels like electricity each time "stats" registers a new one.

**Author's Note:** If you want the full text of Elizabeth's letter, it's in chapter 56.


	61. Chapter 61: Hands

**Standard Disclaimer(s)****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

The name "Nadir" is used in this story solely at the request of readers because it is familiar to them. The Persian who exists in this story is the man from Leroux's _POTO_, not Kay's _Phantom_. No copyright infringement is intended. (And readers should not assume a past that isn't necessarily there. Take this as though Kay never happened.)

**Comment about the ever-present annoyances of Kay:** Now there are spiders in my office. _My office_ for pity's sake! Well, okay, I saw only one, but even so. Again, I cannot bear to kill it and so we have reached an agreement of sorts that he or she will not drop suddenly from high places and frighten me and I will do no harm. It's actually sort of nice having him or her there (have I gone absolutely mad?) but I only hope he or she moves out before next school year begins for one of my students will likely valiantly 'rescue' me by squashing him or her, and it will break my heart.

* * *

(And now... chapter 61)

* * *

Alas for them both, Erik managed to return to the Opera without encountering Elizabeth. In fact, it was by the merest of seconds that they missed one another, but it might as well have been hours for the result was the same. One moment Erik was walking beside the Opera, head bent, cloak concealing the mask, and then next he had faded into the shadows. He disappeared into a space that no one would have believed was a door, even had they been told it was, and hurried along the passageway toward the locked gate. A moment later Elizabeth arrived, trudging as though exhausted from the mere three blocks walk from the place where she always requested the driver stop the carriage to the Opera. She walked to the rotunda and looked around. She leaned heavily against the handrail along the steps, glancing around to ensure she was not seen. She made her way carefully to the appointed place remembering her many journeys in and out of this peculiar place. They were all fraught with dangerous emotions. She had come here, a mere shell of a woman, bored with life and everything it offered. She had returned, concerned and fearful. There was the frantic shopping as her charge lay nearly starved below. There were the countless trips back and forth while Erik remained locked away after the carriage ride. The trip in search of clothing while Erik lay gasping for breath in her hotel room, and finally these last several trips which yielded nothing but sorrow.

This time, once she entered the tunnel, making sure to seal the secret doorway behind her so no one would see, she simply sunk to the floor of the passageway and cried by the dim light of her lantern. If he came tonight, she would throw herself into his arms. There would be no more restrained, polite but difficult conversations. There might be no words at all. They were unnecessary and thus far had caused only confusion and harm. If he appeared tonight, she would tear the mask from him if she had to and kiss him, no innocent comforting kiss like they had shared the night she told him of Jacob. That night seemed so far away now, and the nonsensical conversation they'd had about whether someone like her could possibly understand the depth of his suffering seemed childish and shallow now. The broken trinkets lying about the floor of the parlor, so important at the time, seemed child's play compared to all that was broken now. If he arrived, she would apologize, swear, _beg_ if need be. Anything to reassure him. Anything. She would promise the world and find a way to deliver it, if only he would appear now!

But of course, he didn't. He was below, sitting at the table in the modest kitchen where they had sat, day after day, having breakfast and talking. In front of him was a half-eaten plate of food and her letter, which he had spread out on the table, gently smoothing the creases from when he had crumpled it into his pocket. He read it again and again and again. Midnight, she said. She had chosen deliberately, for even though she arranged to meet him _inside_ the passageway, in daylight _she_ could be seen on her way there. Even the early hours of the evening brought encounters with people who might wonder what business she had lurking about the foundation of the Opera. By midnight, though, the streets were deserted of anyone who might gawk or reproach.

In that way it was safe enough, if only he could trust her. Surely there was no harm in venturing to the appointed place. Ah, but the Persian! Damn him! Well, no matter. If it were only he and she, he was surely a match for the two of them. Actually, he could not imagine harming her, even in self-defense. He would be helpless then, if her intentions were not honest. But he could certainly handle Nadir. Lord knew, he'd been handling Nadir for far too long to have any doubts about his abilities.

_She'd_ saved his life. Twice. He shook off the fact that he had tried to beg her not to the first time and had missed the entire ordeal the second time around. The fact remained that she'd done it. Crazy as it was, she had to have seen some value in him or she wouldn't have bothered. Perhaps he owed her at least the courtesy of a short visit. Had she saved his life only to effectively take it now with a betrayal? It seemed unlikely. For that matter, had _Nadir_ saved him only to destroy him now? Still, their undisclosed connection disturbed him. Even so, neither had brought any harm to him, and they'd both certainly been close enough to do so.

He scanned the letter again. She'd signed it "affectionately." Did she think he was fool enough to fall for that? But a moment later he rebuked himself. It was wrong to assume she intended any harm. Perhaps Nadir had somehow tricked her. If she said affectionately she must mean it, though he was not foolish enough to believe she never lied. She had certainly proven herself capable of deceit when she went to Nadir without his knowledge. From the way Nadir described it _she_ had approached _him_. Had he reason enough to doubt Nadir? Certainly. But then, just because Nadir _might_ lie, it did not guarantee that he _had_.

Even so, the word affection held memories of a vague hope. He remembered her hands. Though he had seen her only a week ago, he could scarcely remember the details of her facial features; when he remembered her, she was all hands. A soft hand upon his shoulder, a gentle hand upon his. Beside the lake she sat beside him and held out her hand while he stubbornly refused to take it. Her hand in his as she stumbled up the passageway, struggling to keep up with him the night of the carriage ride. Firm hands upon his shoulders preventing him from fleeing when she insisted he tell her about his mother. And when the encounter with Christine proved to be too much, just the tips of her fingers on his shoulder, and he could proceed. He sighed and placed one of his own hands on his opposite shoulder. The effect was simply not the same. He might walk all that way to the level of the street just to feel her hands once more.

He glanced at the clock. It was too late anyway to go tonight. She was probably gone by now. Tomorrow, however, was a possibility.

He shouldn't have even considered it, for the moment he allowed _that_ thought to enter his mind, a flood of _other_ thoughts—wild thoughts that had no place being in his mind, ever, under any circumstances—overwhelmed him. Perhaps he would lead her back here. Perhaps she would stay again. He had failed with Christine, but perhaps that had been only practice—practice for _this_ time when it could be done correctly. She was far more willing. He would not have to beg and he would not have to threaten.

As early as nine o'clock found Erik pacing and agitating over the possibility of meeting with Elizabeth. His heart pounded, his legs felt weak. It was not unlike what he felt that first night he'd abducted Christine and that recollection gave him a sense of foreboding. He had ignored all those warning feelings—the telltale sourness in the pit of his stomach, the trembling of his hands—and things had turned out very badly. Perhaps he should heed them this time.

Even as his mind told him he was _not_ going above to meet her he found himself dragging a full-length mirror from an upstairs dressing room all the way to the fifth cellar, carefully keeping his eyes averted, of course. He dressed fastidiously in the least worn and most carefully pressed of his suits. He changed his mask three times as though it were an accessory. When at last he dared to look in the mirror, the result was not nearly as bad as he had feared. He was extraordinarily thin; he had always been, and more so as of late, but his dress coat hung nicely from his thin shoulders and, with it buttoned, one couldn't really see how narrow his chest was. Clothing disguised most of his emaciated body, the mask covered his face, and the hairpiece he'd sometimes worn on occasions when he'd worn a fake nose and gone about among everyone else covered his near-naked scalp. The reality was that standing before the mirror he looked acceptable, primarily because none of him could actually be seen.

But no matter. She had seen him before and accepted it. He had once tried to rationalize that she sought to replace her son, but she had convinced him otherwise. Now a new variation on that thought crept into his mind. _Perhaps her son looked like me_. She had not given any description. She had only gone so far as to say the midwife and the husband were horrified—which they would certainly have been if he looked at all like him. _If he looked like me,_ he thought, _it explains it all. She is already _used_ to me_. Already had fond memories of someone who looks this way. It was rather absurd to imagine anyone else looking like him, but it made more sense than anything else he could conceive of. Or perhaps she deluded herself that if a person cared for another, appearance ceased to matter. A nice thought, but naive. Still, if she held such a view, it could suit his purposes fine.

He returned to pacing. She had found him, near death and horrifying, and instead of running away and leaving him to his misery, she had stayed and tried to talk to him. She even pretended he was not so terrible to look at, feigning confusion when he asked her to turn away, acting displeased with the blindfold... He'd found it impertinent at the time, but as he reflected, he considered it was rather noble. Most people would not even pretend. She returned when he asked her to. She _stayed_. He didn't thank her. Of course not. He had expected her to let him die and dispose of his body, and she had done quite the opposite. But in the time she forced upon him by refusing to allow him to die, he had experienced a moment of two of what he suspected was normalcy: things like a conversation with a friend over breakfast. That was during that period when he had allowed her to look at him. She had always looked directly into his eyes...

He had the sudden desire to present her with a gift when he saw her and he fell to searching the house for something suitable. It was after ten. It was far too late to acquire something new now. He cast about the parlor. Nothing here was appropriate. Everything was too large and too impersonal: vases, lamps, sculptures...

Something small, he thought. Something she could hold in her hand, place in a pocket. Jewelry would have been ideal, but he would not give her the ring that had been returned by Christine. He cast about for some appropriate token of his affection, some small thing to offer her by which she would see that he was not an animal capable only of taking but _a man_, capable also of giving. He went to the small bureau, opened all the draws, and dug among the contents. He swept his hands across the mantelpiece. A small ornate box, two ebony caskets, a grasshopper and a scorpion. Not those, _not those_!—though it occurred to him that it really was the ultimate test—he struck them with a fist and they clattered to the floor. He spun around, searching the room wildly with his eyes. Something... _Any_thing.

No. Not just anything would do for someone who had _saved his life_. Life was pain, true, but these few additional months had given him satisfaction if not happiness. He had returned Christine's belongings to her and rid himself finally of the oppressive feelings of devotion he'd felt towards the girl. He had sat out in the garden. He had walked down a busy street in Paris in the daylight. He had watched a sunrise: all things that as time had progressed since he'd come to the opera and he found himself becoming more paranoid, he had become certain he would never do again. Her gift must be something special that would reflect what she had given him. It must be something beautiful. All women liked beautiful things, didn't they?

At last it came to him and he went to his room and moved the coffin aside to access the hidden compartment that lay beneath it. He reached in and caressed what lay inside, delicately selected a gem, and placed it in his pocket. He was disappointed that he did not have more time, for such an item was better set in some lovely piece of jewelry. This way it seemed more like an afterthought, and it was. He wasn't even good at giving gifts, was he? The old doubts began to creep back in. She had done so much, and he could do so little.

It was not just the extra few months of life she had given him. She had spent so much of her own life—indeed, had she done anything for herself in the time he'd known her?—going between him and Christine. _Christine_! When he was certain he had destroyed her, Elizabeth undid all the terror he caused and even—had it really happened?—managed to get her to have tea with him. True, he hadn't been ready to handle it, but nevertheless! And Christine had treated him civilly. It was like a miracle. And he... he had... Well, he had promised her _all_ his treasure if she saved Christine. He looked skeptically into the cavity in the floor where the coffin had been. He doubted she could carry _that_ much back with her, and where would she _put_ it? A double handful would have to suffice for now. He poured them into a velvet drawstring bag, scrabbling on his hands and knees after the few that went astray and bounced and danced across the floor. There. Done.

Check the mirror. Could it be he? Of course, the clothing and the mask lied for him, but they lied beautifully. Oh, if Christine could see him now, she might regret her choice. She might see finally that he was not so terrible as she thought. Yes, his face was ugly, but an ugly face can be covered! He tucked the bag in his pocket smiling insanely beneath the mask. A hideous monster neatly wrapped in elegant packaging with a pocketful of diamonds. Oh yes. What a catch.

He glanced about the room, straightened a few things that had been shifted during his frantic search and moved his half-finished meal plate to the sink. He didn't intend to bring her home, but it was just as well in case he changed his mind. They might have something of a decent life together, mightn't they? Of course, she had already obtained the small house where they had stayed... What had been her intention in that? And why hadn't he simply asked? The house was not perfect as it was, but it might do temporarily, and changes could be made. Of course, it was too far from the Opera... Perhaps it would be best to stay here after all. With the Opera closed, there would be no prospective lover prowling about above, anyway!

But what of Elizabeth's love? What of Wilhelm of the letter, Wilhelm of Germany, Wilhelm who enjoyed her company and said it was dreadfully dull there without her? Wilhelm. To whom Elizabeth had written of an interesting _case_. Why was he allowing himself to believe it was anything more than that? And yet he still yearned for her touch. Perhaps she could be persuaded otherwise. Threatening the man would not work—his experiences with Christine and Raoul had proven that... but could there be other ways of persuading her? But no! He would _not_ go through it again!

Even as he told himself this, he threw one last glance around the room to make sure it was prepared in case she did come here. He noticed her letter on the table and picked it up. It wouldn't do to have her see it here, as though he were starting a collection of pathetic objects memorial of her now! He placed it in a drawer and locked it. Doing so afforded him a view of his hands at such an angle in the flickering light that he doubted himself yet again.

_You and your hideous hands that reek of death!_ His memory was as poignant as if Christine stood beside him and spoke the words directly in his ear. The pain was great, but the shock was greater. After years of torment and rejection, he'd thought that he'd heard and withstood every insult imaginable, but Christine's words... He wrapped his arms about himself. Could it be? _I was always too kind to tell you that your hideous skeletal hands smell like the grave..._ He'd washed before he'd dressed, but the thought of her words drove him to the washbasin where he scrubbed his hands until they were raw and bleeding. He stared at the abraded skin in horror, frozen in realization of what he'd done. He could not go above with his hands bleeding like this! He glanced at the clock. The bleeding might stop before midnight, but what of Christine's other comment, that they were as cold as those of a corpse?

He placed them together, one against the other, but it told him nothing. They were his hands, as he had always known them. Gloves! It was not unheard of for a gentleman to wear gloves! But even as he hurried back to his wardrobe, he _knew_ he was not going above, gloves or no. His mood was suddenly sour.

..._All _of you reeks of the grave! she had said. He glanced at the clock, then down at his clothing. Yes, he'd washed, but can soap alone remove the stench of death? No, and there wasn't time left to do more.

Carrying the useless gloves in one bony and still bleeding hand, he passed the mirror and was disheartened to see again the gaunt old man with the death's head hidden behind a mask that was almost as offensive instead of the commanding figure he'd deceived himself into believing he saw only moments earlier.

No, he wouldn't go now, but it would be better for her in the end anyway, for what woman could bear to embrace a corpse? And he couldn't have trusted her anyway. And she had her Wilhelm.

Affectionately? Elizabeth _pities_ you, Erik. She—pities you. Nothing more.

* * *

**Quick Author's Note:** I hope this wasn't too over the top. I know he goes back and forth too much, perhaps... but I _am_ leading somewhere, I promise.

**Shameless Begging:** I don't actually have to _put _the begging in here, right? By now it's implied, isn't it?  
(Okay, no. For real... This chapter got fewer reviews than all the others. Is that because I stopped begging or are y'all just busy? I know... there's nothing left to say after we've been together 61 chapters, is there? LOL...)

**Author's Note #2:** The next chapter is ready, but it's on the short side (1400 words). Do you want it TONIGHT or should I add more to it and post it tomorrow? (You can email, PM, or review to let me know. Your choice. This is too silly a question to create a survey for.)


	62. Chapter 62: Tears

**Disclaimer(s):** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

The name "Nadir" is used in this story solely at the request of readers because it is familiar to them. The Persian who exists in this story is the man from Leroux's _POTO_, not Kay's _Phantom_. No copyright infringement is intended. (And readers should not assume a past that isn't necessarily there. Take this as though Kay never happened.)

**Author's Note:**

It just occurred to me that we've all been together on this story for about two months now, which, honestly, isn't that long for FFN considering most folks don't post that often and some stories go on for years, but it feels like we've known each other a while, maybe because I'm posting so often... So naturally I worried when I didn't hear from some of you for a very long time, so I thought I ought to check on those who have "gone missing."

**Missing:** _Last seen somewhere in the reviews, but it was a bit ago. Are you still here?_  
dreamysherry T.C. Muirin Elagi KittyEast canadianidi0t shewillbeluved3  
the yellow flower Red Death's Daydreamer Amanda-Krueger lady wen The Cure disregardedartemis tamar162000 phantomgirl27

**Missing:** _Last seen on the "alerts" list, but out of verbal touch. Are you still reading?_  
Kureneko angel alexandria YYsu Neko-Han Madhatter45

* * *

**Historical inaccuracy note:** When this chapter was originally published, Erik's "second package" was hopelessly wrapped in adhesive tape making it terribly difficult to get into (similar to the Opera house, which is now all walled up as you recall). I was going off _this_ information when I allowed Erik to get into the tape:

_Although adhesive tape was first patented in 1848 by the American Henry Day, and an adhesive bandage was invented by a German pharmacist, Paul Beiersdorf, in 1882, the real advances in adhesive technology came in the twentieth century when synthetic materials were developed. While natural adhesives--such as glue made from animal and plant proteins, pastes of dextrin, starch or latex, and natural rubber, resin, and bitumen--remain in wide use, synthetics now dominate the industry. Synthetic resins are either thermoplastic (softened by heating) or thermosetting (hardened by heating)._

In reviewing, MadLizzy pointed out that adhesive tape wasn't invented until 1920.

_Adhesive tape (specifically masking tape) was invented in the 1920's by Richard Drew of Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing, Co. (3M). Duct tape (the WWII military version) was first created and manufactured in 1942 (approximate date) by the Johnson and Johnson Permacel Division. Its closest predecessor was medical tape._

Naturally this leads one to the conclusion that the tape that I had found in 1848 and 1882 were medical products, which makes sense if you look more closely at the information I was using (pharmacist, bandage).

Thus, it having been determined that I was in error, I've taken the tape from Erik (he's displeased with me now for he'd been having some terribly dangerous fun with it, and after all, he already had enough to be upset about, and it was mostly all my fault, and now this!) and redone that section. So, if it's a bit awkward, you understand why.

* * *

When Elizabeth returned to the house after her final night of waiting hopelessly for Erik, she was quite perplexed to find at her doorstep a large package, obviously from Erik, addressed to her. Then he had been out! If there was a way out, then there was a way in. She must find the Persian at once, and together... but no. She could not wake the man at this hour! She would have to wait until morning. Only a moment ago she had been so tired, and now she knew she would not sleep. She fought the urge to run back to the Opera, reminding herself that if the letter was here, then Erik _had been here_. Vainly she walked down the street a ways, still carrying the package, not caring how bizarre it would look to the neighbors—if anyone were to awaken and glance out—that she was awake at such an hour and roaming around outside alone. At last she returned to the house considering ruefully that he had likely come to the house while he knew she would be waiting at the Opera for her, for the package had not been there when she left, but was now. He had _avoided_ her! He mustn't want to see her at all! At last she slipped inside clutching the package tightly and holding it to her chest in an embrace.

Outside, Erik trembled in the shadows. She had been so close that he could have simply reached out and touched her with his gloved fingertips as she stood on the doorstep. He had been close enough to hear her breath quicken when she discovered the package. He closed his eyes, longed to feel the touch of her hand, to hear the sound of her voice. But he had promised himself he would leave her alone, no matter what he felt when he saw her. Now that he saw her again after a week alone he knew for certain and he ached with the knowledge. How had he allowed it to come to this again? His chest constricted and his mouth went dry at the same instant his eyes suddenly became wet. He pressed himself against the door through which she had gone, the closest he could get to her now. He sobbed silently against the door, wishing to break it down, tear inside, hold her and tell her. Tell her! Tell her what? I know that there is a nice, normal perhaps even _handsome_ man—a doctor!—who waits for you in Germany and longs for you, but you should stay with me instead? Oh yes, that would go over nicely, would it not? It would make as much sense to simply take her as he done Christine!

Instead he caressed the door, suppressed ragged sobs with a gloved hand and felt what was left of his heart break. Oh yes, she had changed him, hadn't she? _Look at my self-restraint_ he wanted to tell her. _See now how I think before I act?_ he would say. The pain in his chest grew to such an astonishing height that thought he would die of grief there on her porch.

Inside, she moved to the table where she'd provided meals which he inevitably took away to his room. Her hands shook as she untied the package and tore off the paper to reveal a smaller package inside and a letter, which she opened without hesitation.

Elizabeth,  
My apologies. It is not possible to meet with you at this  
time. Surely you understand. I do wish to thank you,  
however, for all you have done for Christine. It is true you  
kept your promise to me—something few, if any, have ever  
done. I made a promise that night as well, and I have not  
forgotten it. Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude.  
I hear you say it is unnecessary, but I say it is. I accept charity  
from no one, not even on behalf of another. I wish you all the best.  
Erik

She looked about her as though to find someone who might be able to explain. She turned the page over and then back again as though she expected to find some explanation there.

_Not possible to meet?_ Why on earth not? If he had the time to deliver a message to her door while she sat crying for him in that damp passageway, he surely had the time to appear to her himself! What _else_ was there he did that could interfere with something so simple? It would have been less trouble than leaving the Opera to come all the way here. No, this made it clear. He did not _want_ to see her.

_All she had done for Christine?_ Was he still focusing on that? On _her_? Well, now that her engagement to Raoul was broken off, if he wanted to pursue her, he certainly could do so. It pained her deeply to know that he could never be hers, but she would not deny him his happiness in order to seek her own. He and Christine shared their music and their past, and however disturbing she, Elizabeth, might think their relationship was, it was theirs to pursue as they wished. It was for the best anyway, she tried to tell herself. _She_ was sworn never to love again. She looked down at the wedding ring on her hand. Twenty years since it was placed there, and fifteen years too long it had remained. But she would never, ever... Well, all right, it wasn't something one could commit to realistically. One didn't have choices in such things. But she did not have to act upon such feelings. It was better this way. Better this way. If she told herself enough times, it would be true...

_Promises_. She had absolved him off all promises the moment he'd made them that night. Hadn't she told him _he_ was the treasure? All the riches of the world were nothing to her, for she wanted _him_. Meantime, there _were_ no riches for she had rather determined that what the word treasure meant to him was a bit different than the standard definition.

_Gift._ She glanced at the other package, a mass of folded brown paper seemingly wrapped and re-wrapped then glued shut. A gift. She couldn't help but think of the strange mix of things Christine had received. What, if anything, had she left in the house in the cellar? Or what other peculiar derivative of his mind might this strange package contain? She was reluctant to even open it.

_I wish you all the best?_ That was surely goodbye if she had ever heard it! I wish you all the best, too, Erik, she thought. And he'd merely signed his name, with no closing at all, as though he were nothing to her. She felt a numb shock. All the best? What did that entail. Wealth? Freedom? She had those things already and they had not brought her happiness. Marriage? Children? She'd had her chance, and fate had been cruel with her. All the best of _what_ then? What was left? What _was _the best life had to offer? Precious little, she thought. _Oh Erik, we are more alike than you can ever have realized_.

She tossed the note aside in frustrated grief and stared blankly at the wall for a moment before turning to the other package. She picked at the firmly glued edge of what appeared to be the top of the package but could not get her nails beneath it. She turned it around and tried the other end wondering why he had secured it so thoroughly. Suddenly, though a part of her still wished not to know what was inside, she tore at it frantically, scratching and tearing madly for, like the Opera, it seemed not to have a way in, and she _wanted in_.

Then all at once something popped loose as her nails punctured the paper. She glanced at the window for she heard a sound like rain as the contents of the package fell forth onto the table. It took her a moment to connect the sound with what fell from the package. They looked like tears—pure innocent tears falling from the brown paper, bouncing and dancing across the table, cascading to the floor, slipping through her fingers, falling into her lap in a shimmering pool of sorrow. She touched them with the tips of her fingers. They were so beautiful, like the soul of the man from whom they came. As she fingered them, she noticed that they were wet and was fascinated to find that she had been crying since they first began to fall.

It was a fortune in her lap, and yet she wanted none of it. _I will lay all my treasure at your feet._ Or in your lap. Or upon this table, on the floor, slipping through your fingers... Oh, Erik how can you not see that I have no desire for these stones that masquerade as tears? I would rather collect your tears, far more precious still, and keep them from you so that you should never cry again! Or cry daily if you wish, only cry to me and let me know you. Erik!

She spread her arms out across the table, her hands upon the jewels and her head upon her hands, sobbing. Despite what she thought when she first found the package, she _did_ sleep that night, though she did not go bed. Instead she cried herself to sleep among the diamonds.

Outside, Erik wiped furiously at his eyes, silently cursing the mask and the gloves that so impeded the act. He steadied himself against the door frame, drew a deep breath and composed himself. "Soon," he whispered so softly his words were scarcely audible even to his own ears. "Just give me time."

Then he slipped away silently in the night, still lamenting his inability to go to her as he was, but marginally mollified that at least the package had been delivered. She would understand, of course. She always understood. It simply was not possible for him to see her at this time, but she would understand, and he would come to her again _when_ he could, _if_ he could. He needed a more practical solution than the mask, a more permanent remedy than the gloves. Then he would ask her, perhaps, if he could work up the nerve, why she had stayed with him so long and what her true feelings were. Until then he would simply have to remain hidden away as he had done before.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** You know what to do. Blue button. Thanks.

**Final Author's Note:** Yes, it feels to me like we're pushing the bounds of believability a bit here, too, but what can I say in my defense? This is simply where the story is going. It's gotten out of my control. I apologize.


	63. Chapter 63: Misunderstood

**Disclaimers: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyway.

* * *

**Really special note:** Last chapter when I sent out the message asking about all the folks who were reading that I hadn't heard from I got the most wonderful message from Smaug the Writing Dragon referring me to a piece of art that was partially inspired by chapter 55. I'm touched. Incredibly touched. I can't even begin to find the words. I would have cried, but that's just not me. Instead I giggled like a maniac and went frantic when I couldn't get the link to work. _That's_ me. Anyway, I eventually got there and I'm _very_ impressed. In addition to the wonderful piece that is connected to this little out of control work of mine, there are two other spectacular drawings relating to Phantom of the Opera which I encourage you all to look at.

Smaug is known as Leroux-Phanatic on deviantart, and FFN is more than difficult about allowing us to post links here, so pay close attention to how to get there.

1. Copy and paste the thing that looks like a web address below into your browser  
2. Change the word "period" to an ACTUAL period so it's like the "dot" that goes in "dot com."  
3. At the beginning of the line, add those magic Internet letters h-t-t-p (without the hyphens) and the ":" followed by two forward slashes

Here's the address:  
leroux-phanatic.deviantartperiodcom/art/These-Hands-of-Death-87918428

* * *

The following morning found Elizabeth still at the table, a few feeble rays of sunlight shining through the window onto her tear streaked face. It took her a moment to recall what had happened but it all came back suddenly when she caught sight of the diamonds that lay scattered about her and beneath her leaving indentations on her arms from the pressure of a night's sleep. She shook the last of them out of the brown paper, plucked a piece of black velvet from within the crumpled mess and began returning the stones to the bag. To occupy her mind, she began by counting them but she soon lost track and dropped them several at a time into the soft bag. She found a broom and swept the floor lest she lose one, but ultimately she had to simply hope, for there was no telling how many had bounced away and where they could have landed. It was a pity, really, to waste such wealth in that way, but she had no real recourse.

Numbly she placed the bag in her bedroom and went to wash up. Naturally, she couldn't keep it, she thought, but how could she possibly return them when there was no way into the Opera? She banged the heel of her hand against the bathroom door, slamming it closed far harder than she intended but feeling slightly better for having done so. She opened the door and slammed it again. The door, unlike everyone else, responded to her, did what she expected, behaved the same each time. A third slam left her in a state of mind ready to face the day.

* * *

Morning found Erik stretched out in a similar fashion but upon the roof. After his last encounter with the roof and the spectacular sunrise, he had taken to going to the roof often, sometimes remaining all night. For a moment upon waking and stretching he almost felt good, but then he felt the gloves upon his hands and the mask upon his face and he remembered that he had failed to work up the courage to face her and had further failed to find solutions to the problems presented by what Christine had said. The mask was a start. No, not this mask, the _other_ mask. The mask he kept stupidly forgetting was down below in a locked drawer in the bureau in his room. It was soft and pliable like human skin. He'd spent a fortune obtaining the stretchy material and the better part of a month with the craftsmanship. He had finished it just before that fateful night with Christine only to never wear it. He stretched again and sat up to watch the sunrise. Was it only the result of having been deprived of its glory for so long, or were they always this spectacular? He stared in wonder and remained on the roof, though his eyes, unaccustomed to the light, ached and watered. When he could bear it no longer, he went below, stumbling in the darkness rather than waiting for his vision to adjust.

* * *

Elizabeth regarded herself in the mirror. She looked pale and faded, just as she remembered looking for the past fifteen years. Well, except for that brief period... but it was over now. Time to move on. But what was she to do with these? she questioned herself. But it wasn't a question at all, for she'd known the answer the moment they fell from the paper the night before. There was, of course, only one right thing to do with them. There was no way to return them if he would not see her, and there was absolutely no way she was keeping something of this value. First, she didn't need it. He most likely did, she thought with a pang. _I never spent the money_, he'd told her. Had that been a desperate bid to impress her, or a simple statement of fact? _I will lay all my treasure at your feet_. All your treasure indeed, she thought. I am so ashamed to have ever doubted you... but I can't take all you have, for then... Oh, but she couldn't bear to think it. He wouldn't would he? He mustn't, not after all they'd been through to the contrary. But she was in over her head and had been for quite some time. This was far more than she could handle. It was, she reflected, far more than Wilhelm could have handled.

She cringed. If he'd been "handling" this, it was likely everyone, perhaps even herself included by this point, would have ended up bound and sedated for an indefinite period of time. There would have been hope for Christine, but Erik never would have left alive unless he found some means of escape. She shook her head hard. Alas, life had changed him. He was no longer the sweet young doctor who rescued her and took her away from the horrors of that place. No, now he was the director of a place just like it, and she could scarcely bear to step inside, which was the real reason for her long holiday in Paris, though she'd been loathe to admit it.

Maybe this was for the best, then. No, a relationship with someone like Erik was not possible, of course, but a glimpse of it had given her a taste of what life could be, and she knew now for certain what she did _not_ want. She would not be going back to the cold confines of the asylum in any capacity. Not as a nurse, an assistant, certainly not as a patient for she would sooner die, and not even as a doctor, for it seemed senseless to pursue further education into a field that was filled with so much agony. But she was not so old yet that it was too late to live! Certainly not! When she'd arrived here a few men had glanced at her, and though she'd put up as cold a front as she could at the time, she was now acutely aware that for fifteen years she had been lonely, lonely, _lonely_... Ah, Erik, she thought, you've taught me so much! If only you could reap the benefits of your lessons for yourself! Meantime, I will never, ever forget you, and though someday I will move on, I will be settling for _second_ best, whomever he is.

She went back to the bedroom and poured the contents of the velvet bag onto the bed to gaze upon them one last time. She rolled the stones about with her fingertips in wonder. She had _never_ expected... But she would _not_ keep them. But then... perhaps... She plucked through them carefully and chose _one_. It was by far not the largest. Rather, it was one of the smallest, but it was brilliant nonetheless. She placed it aside, scooped the remainder into the bag, carefully hid the one she intended to keep, and was out the door before she could change her mind.

* * *

Erik was standing before the covered full-length mirror in the fifth cellar. A mirror, he thought with a laugh. Who'd have thought I would _own_ a mirror, much less look _forward _in excited anticipation to spending time in front of it? He closed his eyes as he had the first night at the house on the outskirts of the city and drew back the cloth that covered the mirror's surface. When he opened his eyes, however, the sight was far more pleasant than it had been that day. He was almost _normal_. Oh, not really, for at close inspection one could tell it was really a mask, but adjustments could be made. From a distance, though, it could serve a purpose. It was certainly better than the black one—or even the white one—for going to the market. He'd still need the hairpiece to cover the edges where it was attached for there just wasn't a simple way to manage to keep it on without a band around the back or sticky edges, but it was definitely a start. He reached out a tentative hand and laughed at himself when he struck the glass. It looked so real, he'd thought he could reach right in and poke at it. Grinning, he turned his hands to his face and prodded the material. Not quite exactly like skin, but certainly much closer than he'd come before. Something wasn't quite right, though. There was something unnatural looking about the nose. _Obviously,_ he thought. It's a _fake_ nose. It would have to be improved, though. He hadn't gone through all this work to make himself look like any normal man with a too-large misshapen nose. He peeled the rubbery thing off, threw it aside and paced back and forth throughout the house on the lake.

* * *

Again? thought Nadir, after dragging himself to the door to look out and seeing _Elizabeth_. What could it be _now_? He put on his kindest smile and ushered the lady in.

"Where did you leave the letter?" she asked, skipping the usual formalities.

He stared at her blankly a moment. Oh! The letter! Right. "I left it—" why was she doing this to him again? He'd made it quite clear he had no desire to reveal to her any more than he had to, and yet she continually asked him questions leaving him to decide between being polite and helpful and being loyal—and safe. "I left it where I felt sure Erik would find it," he said.

"He found it," she said in a tone that suggested something rather like doom.

"He did? How do you know? What happened? Have you seen him?"

She tossed the velvet bag at him and he caught it lightly. "What's in here?" he asked as if he expected something to leap out and bite him.

"Tears."

"Madam," he began, but she cut him off.

"Look," she said fiercely. "Just—look!" And she turned her head away.

She declined to watch as his dark slender fingers carefully untied the drawstrings, tugged at the opening and slipped two fingers inside. "Ah!" he exclaimed pulling out a rather large stone and holding it to the light in wonder.

"Indeed. Where is Erik?"

He put the stone back. "I haven't seen him," he said honestly. "I wish I had, but I couldn't get inside any more than you could. I left your message where he would find it. These... these come from him, I trust? Surely this is not at attempt at bribery. I mean, I would be... overjoyed, but this would be an overpayment by any reckoning, especially as I have absolutely no information at all!"

"An overpayment by any reckoning," she echoed. "Yes. That's exactly what it is. Yes, these come from him. Now I must return them."

"Return them? How?"

She glared.

"Madam, I simply cannot leave something of this value where I left your letter. While I rather expect Erik is the only one who could get there, I wouldn't... I wouldn't want to take that chance."

"Take me there," she said simply.

"Take you there? Why, that's preposterous, I can't take you _there_..."

"Why not?"

And as he had no answer, a short time later found them both there.

* * *

Erik was no longer pacing in the house but pacing through the portions of the tunnels left open to him on his side of his newly constructed masonry. He had fallen to doubting himself again, though this time it was not his appearance but his motivation. What was the point of fashioning a new face for her when he had left there because he was certain she was involved with someone else? And if what Christine said were true, why had Elizabeth acted so normally around him from the time she found him until the day he left? Again, was her vision so distorted? But no, she explained that away with stories of her son. Had she no sense of _smell_? No sense of _touch_? No one is that good an actress, Christine had said, but maybe Elizabeth _was_. It was all that nonsense studying Freud that allowed her to do it, surely. She had some sort of power over her own reactions. Surely such a thing was useful in dealing with people who were... well... _disturbed_. And he certainly was that, wasn't he, he thought! There was that issue as well. The man who had written to her had asked her about some interesting _case_, but as far as Erik could tell, the only people she talked to were he and Christine. Indeed, had she any _time_ to talk to anyone else with all the agony he and Christine had put her through? Hardly. So was he merely a case? Or something to be pitied? A friend? Or _more_? And if that were the case, why was she so intent on getting him into the same room as Christine? Christine. All the things Christine had said... Could they be true? If so, he was far more hideous than he had thought, and mask wasn't going to be enough. His head pounded.

* * *

"Leave me," Elizabeth told Nadir at the iron grates.

"Absolutely not."

"It's not a suggestion."

What would she do if he refused? Surely she was not dangerous! Yet what was it Erik had said? No, he had only been joking after all, for if the woman had intended him any harm, Erik certainly would not have given her diamonds! His heart sank. Unless _Erik_ intended them as a bribe. It was too complicated, too frustrating to think about. It didn't matter anyway. Unless she was very skilled at picking locks, she would be here forever. He took a step away from her reluctantly.

"Wait for me at the next turn. This is a passageway I do not know. I shan't be long."

"Surely you are not going _through_ there, Madam?"

She met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. "Sadly, I am surely not," she said, her eyes downcast.

She waited until she was certain he was far off, then she cried out as loud as she could. She screamed his name until her voice broke, then she simply stood, staring through the bars. She caressed them with her fingertips, spoke to him as if here were there.

"Erik, it's true you didn't forget that promise. Perhaps you did forget that I released you from that one, though. Remember? Don't you remember? Perhaps you've forgotten your other promises, made later and far more important. Have you forgotten 'never under any circumstances' Erik? How am I to keep that promise with you on the other side of iron bars, Erik? Is this what you meant by whatever misery then? Perhaps I misunderstood you entirely, for there was no misery for me as long as you were with me, Erik, in any capacity.

* * *

Of course she was certain he didn't hear her. One could hear nothing down there in the fifth cellar; she was sure of it, for she'd spent enough time there to know. And it was true. He _hadn't _heard most of what she said. But coincidentally he had been wandering through the _third_ cellar at the time she was calling for him. Of course, _he_ didn't believe he'd heard her _either_. It was surely his mind playing tricks on his ears, or the other way around. Even so, he had nothing else in particular to do at the moment and he had rather convinced himself that he was losing his mind anyway, so he figured what harm could there possibly be, as the Opera was deserted and he had all the time in the world, in listening to the voices in his head. And so he followed the sound, which seemed to be a frantic screaming of his name.

He followed it until he reached a point not far from the iron gates, then stopped. It had been amusing, yes, to pretend that he was insane, that he was merely listening to something his subconscious had created to torment him—or calm him—he couldn't even be sure which, but the reality was the voice that called his name came from _very_ near the gate. There was the almost certain possibility that someone was there. And there was no mistaking her voice. He _never_ mistook a voice. It was _most definitely_ she. He paused in the shadows as her voice died and he had to wonder whether he had imagined it after all, but just when he was about to turn and walk away, musing to himself that he had, indeed, completely lost his mind, he heard her speaking softly directly to him. Had she _seen_ him? But no, she _couldn't_ have. Could she somehow _sense_ his presence? Three months ago he'd have said no, but now he would never be sure again. He silenced his own thoughts, for she'd been speaking, and he'd missed a good portion of what she'd said.

* * *

"...you were planning this even then?" she continued. "It seems you must have been, for you knew... And you were right. This is misery far worse than I ever expected."

She stood, touched the bars one last time. "Goodbye, Erik," she said softly. "Goodbye..." she turned away. "...my love," she whispered faintly.

* * *

He had turned away sadly when he heard the word goodbye, for it answered for him the question he had struggled with in the third cellar. Why was he working so desperately to ensure this new mask was perfect when he strongly suspected that she had a relationship with the man who had written her the letter? Should he bother at all? Should he go to her with his plans to make himself as close to normal as the means available to him would allow, or should he forget her and decide whether it was worth doing for himself alone or not at all? Asking her was too awkward, for she was so kind it was likely she would lie to him. Even if she did not lie, he would suspect she did, as Christine had when she claimed that Raoul de Chagny was no one to her that night after he'd been in her dressing room. Then why was he fussing with this mask? If he'd wanted Christine again she'd been his for the taking just a week ago, mask or no. Had she become so desperate? And why did he suddenly have no interest at all? Why could he suddenly not even remember why he had so desired her in the first place? And why did not being able to answer that make him feel dirty and ashamed about his hopeless pursuit of her? But now he had his answers to the part about Elizabeth. He had his goodbye. It was finished. Again. Seeking to put distance between himself and the location where the ugly emotions occurred and taking advantage of the Opera's emptiness, he went back upward as he had the night Christine had so dismantled him, upward... all the way back to the roof of the Opera.

She cried heavily as she walked the distance from the iron gate to the end of the passageway. She was still weeping when she found Nadir at the entrance waiting for her. A true gentleman, he offered her his arm, allowed her to lean heavily upon him as they left the Opera, walked the distance towards his flat on Rue de Rivoli. She sobbed on his shoulder and he put his hand on her back consolingly. They could, of course, have no idea how this looked to Erik from the roof of the Opera.

* * *

**Shameless begging:** Here we go again. Reviews please? I'm _dying_ to know what you think of this one. (And I must admit this one completely had a mind of it's own. I had no idea when I started typing this that this is what would happen. _No idea_. You _must_ believe me.)


	64. Chapter 64: Enraged

**Disclaimers****: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**WARNING****:** If I am too far over the top (and I am) please simply suspend your disbelief; it's far more fun that way

**A slight reprieve**: Some of you were expressing such intense feelings for poor Erik that I had to be less descriptive at the end of this chapter or I thought some of you would just _die_. If it compromises the story too much, please let me know and I'll go back and... well... do what I always do.

* * *

Erik trembled at the sight. His mouth fell open in disbelief as he stared after them. It could not be. It simply _could not be_. Certainly, he'd been mistaken if he'd thought she could have those sorts of feelings for _him_—her kindness had tricked him cruelly—but _Nadir_? Of all men on earth, _why_? His face twisted into a horrid grimace. A relationship with this Wilhelm might have been forgiven, perhaps, in a fit of fondness, for she could not help what she had _already_ felt for someone before she ever encountered him. Pity could not make a woman forget love. (It hadn't worked with Christine either.) Returning to one's true love... it could be forgiven. But _this_! This was beyond pardon, beyond understanding, beyond absolution, for surely she had met Nadir only because of him! (Unless she knew Nadir first, and that made everything they'd ever shared a sham and a lie... no, he could not believe it...) And Nadir! This was the ultimate in betrayal for Nadir... Nadir had been...

What? What had Nadir been? Nothing. Not a friend, certainly. He was nothing but a man who stalked him, mistrusted him, threatened to expose him at every turn. What was Nadir but the man to whom he had gone and told, "I am dying" and he'd spoken not a word in return. Not a word of regret, not a word of comfort, not a word to suggest he might _do_ something about it. No, that had taken a complete and total stranger come wandering through the Opera one dull afternoon, looking for something to do. Oh, and what a favor she'd done him at that! Now he stood here watching the two people he'd dared to call "friend" in his mind on good days, their arms wrapped 'round one another strolling down the street like young lovers! And as if it weren't enough, they had to walk _right past_ the Opera, knowing _full well_ that he was inside. Ah, that's right. She'd come to say _goodbye_, had she? Goodbye indeed, you— but he couldn't even think it. He couldn't choose a cruel word, apply it to her and be finished with it. No.

_Oh, no,_ he thought, suddenly powerless to hold it in any longer. _No, no, no, not again..._ With his fists and jaw clenched he fought for control as he felt the emotion well inside him. _God, no! Not again..._ his hands shook. _I can't bear it again..._ But something burst inside and he was on his knees once again, uncontrollably sobbing, simultaneously cursing himself for his inability to restrain it. When he could cry no more the anger still raged and he resolved to find them and—well, he would determine "_and what"_ when he got there. Meantime, he could scarcely see through his blinding rage to get back down to the cellar to tie on the old black mask, and when he did he remembered it was daylight. It was daylight and he would have to wait for nightfall. In a single motion he whirled around and whisked a number of ornate items from the top of the bookshelf with a tremendous crash. The sound almost brought him to his senses. Almost, but not quite. Instead he shoved the bookshelf over as well and watched it splinter magnificently as it heavily struck the stone floor.

* * *

Elizabeth slumped into a chair at Nadir's and declined every offer of food or drink he made her. Outwardly she was forlorn and exhausted, but inwardly she was making lists of things she needed to do before her spirits descended further and she became incapable of managing anything. She needed to contact those opera managers one last time, but not until she managed to connect with the law student again. She needed to make arrangements to get to a port from which she could get to England. She needed to book passage _to_ England. A message should be sent to Wilhelm that she was no longer in Paris, for until she managed to work her way out of his employ, she still owed it to him to ensure he could reach her.

And now that it actually mattered, she at last had to tell the Persian of her plan and why it was that she truly needed his help, for Erik, left alone to Erik's devices... well, there was no telling exactly what he would do. Even if he somehow moved beyond his fears and his anger, there remained his appearance and it seemed, at least from Erik's telling of it, that the world was simply not ready for Erik as he appeared. Someone would have to serve as a front. And someone would need to ensure that Erik took care of Erik. Nadir was the only logical choice. She couldn't do it herself, much as she wished to. He had gone away, walled her out, responded negatively to her request to see him—effectively denying her existence. But Nadir knew him, knew the Opera and it's cellars, had kept watch over him before and most importantly, showed a commitment to keeping Erik's secrets still better than she herself.

Once all else was arranged, she needed to see the Comte, let him know she was leaving, return the key to the little house and then she needed to get away from the darkness that all Paris represented to her. She would leave as rapidly as possible, for _everything_ here, from the language to the weather, reminded her of him. An old frantic feeling crept in, but she would not yield to it, for as long as she kept her wits about her, no one could say that she'd lost everything. She would not give in to the darkness. She would _not_.

But Nadir was speaking to her. Poor, kind fellow. He had no idea! She feigned polite listening but the truth was she couldn't bring herself to hear it, for it was certainly about Erik, and she couldn't bear to hear another word. Let it be goodbye and done with. It was enough she would have to speak of him to explain... To dwell on it would only prolong her sorrow. It had been a mistake to get so involved. She'd warned herself when he locked himself in his room the night after the carriage ride, but she'd ignored her own warning. It had been a mistake—a mistake of the gravest kind—for what had she gotten for love in the past? The rejection of a community she loved and a man at the end of a noose. That was the ultimate, though, wasn't it? That was what she was truly running from. She couldn't take the chance, wait around, have him die or worse end his life by his own hand and have to see it. She would go quite mad again after all, and after all these years she'd thought it not possible.

She thanked Nadir kindly and arranged to meet with him again soon after first securing his promise to at least consider her request. It was a peculiar request at that. It would require long hours at the Opera and long hours with Erik when he would tolerate them. Assuming she was correct in her assertions that Erik was, indeed "changed" and "gentle" he didn't see much reason to decline. After all, he'd been keeping tabs on Erik for years while he lived in secret beneath the Opera with no compensation. It should be far easier if he was rightfully there and far more worthwhile as he would receive a portion of the contents of the velvet bag in exchange. She left soon after in search of a carriage and a messenger, for it was at last time to reveal as much as was necessary of the truth to the young law student who had been so helpful. Upon learning that his studies kept him unavailable until evening she sent him an invitation to visit her and spent the remainder of the daylight hours arranging for a telegraph to be sent to Wilhelm and to be on board the train in two days' time.

Had Elizabeth been less distracted by her grief perhaps she would have considered visiting the Opera once more, making one last desperate bid to see Erik and tell him the truth about everything—not only her feelings, but her ill-fated attempt at a pleasant surprise and her dealings with the Persian. Unfortunately, his own secrecy about others learning of his existence due to his appearance and past added an urgency to the covert nature of what had originally been intended only to delight him with an unexpected gift. She became so fixated on secrecy that it had overtaken her entirely. She was no longer thinking clearly; she could not let go of the idea that her intentions must remain secret, and this, perhaps, was her downfall. For that evening when Erik arrived outside the little house, still full of fury and hoping for the opportunity to confront both her and Nadir at once, he was indeed met by something of a surprise of the variety she had _certainly_ not intended.

* * *

Arriving at Elizabeth's home, for Erik never did learn that it was owned by Raoul, he encountered a sight that plunged him into an emotion quite beyond sorrow and quite beyond rage. His vision darkened, his thoughts fled, and some animal instinct took over leaving him powerless to do anything but pant and stare as a plump but dignified man red-bearded man strolled casually up the walk and rapped on the door. _There has to be a reasonable explanation_! a small sliver of what was left of Erik's rational mind tried to scream to the rest of him, but he was too far beyond the point of being able to acknowledge it. He moved as though in a dream to a vantage point from which to watch as Elizabeth opened the door and greeted the man with what appeared to be politely restrained delight. Erik's eyes narrowed as she let him kiss her on both cheeks then touched his shoulder as he moved past her and she closed the door. Such touches were, apparently, not reserved for him alone. It seemed in fact, that he had gotten the lesser end of the bargain during his time spent with her.

He growled in frustration. They would surely be in the parlor, and there was not a window outside which would afford him a decent view. He slunk around the perimeter of the house, thankful that it was an especially cloudy night and few street lamps. At some point while he stood in the shadows something like sanity returned and he reflected that this was exactly what he had promised himself he would never do again. No, he had abducted her, hadn't threatened her and hadn't begged her, but he was well on his way toward that point. He was _spying_ on her, watching her from the shadows, analyzing her every move and being eaten away by jealousy. It might as well be six months earlier in the Opera. It might as well be Christine. Oh, he'd thought he'd changed, but no! It was the same but that he no longer had the advantage of hidden passageways and trap doors. It was the same except that he no longer had the advantage of her superstitious nature. It was exactly the same, except that this time he had no advantages. Oh, this time would be much, much worse. Squatting in the shrubbery he put his head in his hands and quietly bemoaned his existence while inside Elizabeth and the young lawyer-to-be discussed the issue of male heirs.

* * *

"There are none," she said simply.

"You can never be certain," he responded.

"Sometimes, one can be certain."

"Unmarried, then?"

"Assuredly."

"Still, one can never be _entirely_ certain," he continued, averting his eyes somewhat ashamedly at the idea of what he might have to point out if she did not comprehend his suggestion immediately.

"One can be _reasonably_ certain," she said. This would be most awkward if it became necessary to pursue it further.

"I would put that clause in anyway. I would feel infinitely better about it this way, for you see, if we put it in and there is not, then it simply reverts back... If we were to leave it out and there was... Surely you can understand the concern there."

She shook her head and smiled sadly. "Put whatever you like in. I'll just have to trust you."

He graciously accepted her offer of tea and, when the paperwork was complete, remained enjoying the conversation, for unlike the majority of women his own age, she was willing to engage in interesting topics of conversation. He was rather disappointed to learn that she intended to sail for England within the week but offered his services and his friendship should she ever return. Speaking of services, she said, she certainly didn't expect that he had done such research and planning for no compensation at all and wondered if he might accept a somewhat unorthodox payment for his troubles.

* * *

Perhaps Erik could have borne knowing that Elizabeth was within the house with a man half her age who was not deformed or disfigured in any way only a week after he'd departed and a mere few hours after she'd allowed Nadir to put his arm around her. Perhaps he could have reasoned that she was of questionable morals; indeed, it might have even explained her bizarre fascination with him and her willingness to allow him to stay the night in her hotel room.

But the young man exited the house whistling to himself with a hand in his pocket, which he quickly withdrew once the woman closed the door behind him. What he held in his hand drove Erik over yet another edge. _I am so little to her that she's giving them away!_

He should have walked away at that moment, given up any hope of making sense of it or finding any peace, but a sick curiosity combined with the need sudden need to teach himself a lesson about ever trusting a member of so-called humanity again drove him to follow her the following day and the one after that so that he was trailing her like a shadow as she went again to the Opera (For _what_? Hadn't she tortured him enough? Did she still intend to _take_ it _from him_?) _back_ to Nadir's (she had not had enough of the Persian the day before?) and then to Raoul's country estate (so this was the route to get there, not that it mattered anymore! But honestly, was there any man in Paris with whom she was not intimately involved?)

Erik returned to the Opera in a still greater rage than he had left and as it was (still) vacant and abandoned (just like him) there was no one to torment, no one upon whom to take out his frustrations, and no one upon whom to exact revenge. Except Nadir. Nadir would pay soundly for this, he vowed.

Sadly, Erik did not see Nadir for nearly a week, and by that time, Elizabeth was already en route to England.

* * *

**Shameless begging**: This time around I'd like to hear from all of the long-timers who have been with us all the way since chapter 1 but haven't said hello yet, just because I'm curious who else is out there. Any takers?


	65. Chapter 65: Darkness

**Author's Note:**  
Okay, remember how I said in the reviews that "chapter 65 simply isn't ready?" Yeah, well, I LIED. This is a short one, but I decided it would be fun to post here. I know. I'm sick. I'm completely and totally sick, sick, sick. Have fun y'all.

**Disclaimers****:  
**I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

**Another note regarding Kay**:  
As if the spiders weren't enough, tonight a cat showed up. Yes, a cat. Not a Siamese cat, fortunately, but a cat nonetheless. We have a no cats rule here, but we patted her anyway. Now she is not leaving. Hmmm... Guess what. If she is still there in the morning I will name her. (Oh yes, and I know I mentioned the spiders in my dorm and in my office, but yesterday one ran across my desk at home while I was typing chapter 64. Weird, eh? Do you think I just never noticed them before?)

**And finally one last note regarding translations**: A friend wanted to borrow my copy of The Phantom of the Opera and for three months I've been telling her "As soon as I finish this thing I'm writing" but that seems to be taking FOREVER and I want to invite her over here to join in, so she's got to have access to the original first. (I gave her Kay, too.) Well, wouldn't you know it, I needed to look something up, so I used the full-text online version and it's _completely different_! I can't get over how differently two translators can read the same text (I never have been able to, not with the Odyssey, either) so now I am going to have to get the French version to see which version I most agree with. :sigh:

* * *

**Previously**:  
Erik returned to the Opera in a still greater rage than he had left and as it was (still) vacant and abandoned (just like him) there was no one to torment, no one upon whom to take out his frustrations, and no one upon whom to exact revenge. Except Nadir. Nadir would pay soundly for this, he vowed.

Sadly, Erik did not see Nadir for nearly a week, and by that time, Elizabeth was already en route to England.

**WARNING****:**  
And now the _real_ fun begins!!

* * *

A week had passed and Erik was still in the space below the fifth cellar. Yes, though it was never quite referred to as the sixth cellar, for it was not so large as the other areas and not used for much of anything, there was, in fact, an area beneath the fifth cellar and the house on the lake. It was, in fact, to this very area that Erik had once taken Raoul, the Comte de Chagny, while he was still the vicomte—or more appropriately, he had just become the Comte through his brother's death a mere hour earlier, but he was not yet aware of that, though Erik was. Raoul had been there merely a few hours, but he had been chained to the wall in a most merciless fashion and it was for this, as well as the death of his only brother, for which he could never forgive Erik.

Erik, on the contrary, had remained far longer than mere hours. No, he had been down there for days, _weeks_ possibly. Erik himself had lost track time entirely, but it was there that he had gone shortly after he returned from trailing Elizabeth on her final journeys through Paris. First he had done some serious damage to possessions for which he had once cared quite deeply. If the reader deplored the fate of the bookshelf that suffered at his hands when he thought to follow Elizabeth and Nadir but could not, he will be horrified at the state of the interior of the house on the lake. Expensive vases, priceless artwork, original manuscripts of books—much of what he had once collected in the hopes of having something that resembled "whatever everyone else has" lay crushed, broken, shattered, torn, or otherwise mangled upon the floor. He retained enough of his senses, however, to eventually realize what he was doing and when he did, he forced himself to walk the distance to the area below and descend into its depths before he could destroy absolutely everything. He extinguished his lantern and left it at the top of the stairs forcing himself to descend into a void in which he could see nothing. He closed the door behind him and found his way to the bottom by touch and there he threw himself upon the ground in bitterness and anger and remorse.

He passed in and out of consciousness at varying degrees, ignoring his body's cries for food and drink, telling himself he was content to suffer—indeed, that he was _made_ to suffer. He could feel a part of him not really believing it, but he ignored that part and figured it would eventually go away on its own. He spent a portion of the time sobbing and a portion of it screaming with violent rage, but for the majority of the time, he stared into utter darkness often unsure whether he was awake or asleep. Days passed but he could not be sure how many, for he had no concept of time there in the darkness. When he at last felt certain he would do no more damage to self or property he crawled on his hands and knees across the empty space to the stone steps and managed to drag himself to the top. He made his way carefully back to the house on the lake, stumbling as he went. His mind was a blank, which was probably to his advantage, for had he been able to focus on the events of the week before he made his descent, he likely would have found the need to go back down immediately.

Inside he set to work to repair the damage he had done in his blind fury. He worked at it slowly, for a part of him was aware that he had nowhere to go and nothing to do when he completed it. He started in the parlor with the books. He felt infinitely bad about the condition of the books and handled them gently as he restored them to what was left of the shelf. He passed his hands over their spines and paused to look at the back of his hand. The abrasions from the night he had scrubbed them had long since healed, but now he had large bloody gashes across his knuckles as though he had repeatedly punched something far harder than his hands. This _had_ to stop. Everything else could be rationalized, but not damage to his hands. They might be hideous hands that reek of death, but he needed them. This was unacceptable. But _when_ had he done it and how could he be sure not to do it again if he _could not recall_ having done it in the first place?

He felt lightheaded and his hands trembled. He knew it was from going without food for so long, but he also knew any supplies left in the kitchen would be long spoiled after whatever time he'd spent below. He worked through the haze and eventually, though the pain when his stomach began that terrible gnawing sensation he'd noticed previously. At length he was too tired to continue and he dragged himself to the Louis-Philippe room where he stood in the doorway and stared at the bed confusedly. Why had he come here? This was not his room. He shuffled away idly wondering why the quilt was rumpled and the pillows displaced, but not caring too tremendously about either one.

His room was in nearly as poor condition as the rest of the house. Though he could not recall having pulled down the draperies, they lay in untidy heaps on the floor. When had _that_ occurred? And how _much else_ didn't he remember? The coffin was pushed askew and jewels lay scattered about where he had missed them in his haste to go above when he thought he would present them to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth! How it all came back to him at the thought of her name! He pushed himself away from the secret compartment in the floor and gagged wretchedly, then let his arms slide out from beneath him and lay his face upon the cool stone of the floor. It doesn't matter anymore, he told himself. It was stupid to even hope it. It was useless to remember it. He pushed himself back up and set to concealing the space beneath the coffin. This really was deplorable, leaving the compartment open like this. If someone had gotten in, they could have stolen a fortune from him. He didn't need it, naturally, he rationalized, but they, whoever they were, did not _deserve_ it. He shoved everything into the hole, sealed the floor, and slid the coffin back into place. Rest, at last, he thought, climbing in. But he was dizzy and unstable and made a clumsy job of it. Getting out would be more difficult still. He closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep fitfully. He was so uncomfortable. Had he really slept this way for years? _But I am very tired of it!... _he had told Christine once. No. I'm _not_, he told himself now.

_I'm sick and tired of having a forest and a torture chamber in my house._ No, not tired of _that_ at all! And it shall perhaps come to good use again someday! Someday soon, if only I can find him! ._..of living like a mountebank, in a house with a false bottom!... _No! It is as I wish it!

_I'm tired of it! I want to have a nice, quiet flat, with ordinary doors and windows and a wife inside it, like anybody else! A wife whom I could love and take out on Sundays and keep amused on weekdays..._ No!

But it was no use. He was, actually, beyond merely "tired" of it. He felt he couldn't stand one more moment. He dragged himself back out of the coffin and threw himself into the bed of the Louis-Philippe room, cursing himself for being _soft_ and _like them_ but falling asleep too quickly to delve further into his self abusive train of thought.

He awoke, hours later rested but hungry. Damn! How could he possibly need to eat so often? It wasn't as if there was much of a body to sustain! He slid out of the bed angrily, stormed up his only passageway and out the gate where he _literally_ tripped over the body of Nadir.

* * *

**Shameless begging for reviews**: Say anything you like, but I'd love you hear some speculation... (And I'd still love to hear from the people who have never reviewed before, just for the novelty of it.)


	66. Chapter 66: Torture

**Author's Note:**  
This chapter goes out to Hot4Gerry who told me it was okay to post a short chapter and KelsisMom who confirmed that it was also okay not to, until I was sure it was ready. My choice to post now is a combination of both their advice, and I think it worked. I do want to warn everyone that as today is my birthday (oh please don't bother to say it; I try _not_ to celebrate) my husband and a couple of friends will be taking me out (joy! I _do_ love the _out_ part, though, because we get to go to the Melting Pot for fondue!) I will be out (and up) late. Tomorrow I think I have most of the morning and most of the afternoon to myself, so I may spend it writing, but I can't be certain. People are imposing on me from every angle this week, so if there's nothing, it's because I got busy. Sorry to leave you where this will, but I'll do the best I can.

**Disclaimers****:  
**I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Previously**:  
He awoke, hours later rested but hungry. Damn! How could he possibly need to eat so often? It wasn't as if there was much of a body to sustain! He slid out of the bed angrily, stormed up his only passageway and out the gate where he _literally_ tripped over the body of Nadir.

* * *

In his wretched state, he did not catch himself in time and struck the stone floor of the tunnel palms and knees first and absorbing most of the shock, but unable to slow his downward momentum enough to keep his head from striking stone as well. White-hot pain streaked through him and triggered an instinct to fight or flee, so as he scrambled to his feet he glanced back to assess his adversary only to determine that the body had apparently not moved. He froze. Even from a distance he could make out that face. It was the face of the daroga, silent and still. He backed away in horror. What had he done?

He held his hands in front of him, struggling to see the bloody gashes in the dim light. How _had_ he gotten those? _When_ had he gotten those? He couldn't remember hitting anything (any_one_?) and yet there were his damaged hands. His mind leapt to draperies strewn about the floor of his room. He couldn't remember tearing them down, yet down they were. What else couldn't he remember, he thought wildly as he looked at the still body on the floor. Oh no, he thought. No, no, no...

He backed away, his mind a whirlwind of horror, confusion and regret. Yes, regret, for though he'd vowed that Nadir would pay—and pay soundly—he had _not planned_ this. Oh no. There had been a deranged moment of pure fantasy in which he contemplated dragging the daroga toward the torture chamber while telling him the torture chamber was too good for him, that he deserved far worse and would simply have to _wait_ in the torture chamber until he, Erik, came up with something fitting. But ultimately, he'd have let him go after filling him with fear. Ultimately, he'd never really enjoyed the killing. Ultimately...

Ultimately, his fragile psyche was not going to be able to deal with this. No, the rest he could rationalize as having been under duress, or they were sentenced to die anyway, or it was done out of self preservation, but this... this was murder. Vengeful murder perhaps, murder without intent, obviously, but murder nonetheless! Murder! The very thing the poor man had been trying to prevent him from committing all these years! It was a bitter irony that he would die by Erik's hand after working for years to save the others. Erik backed away in revulsion, back through the tunnels, back toward the house, all his feelings of hunger and thirst fading away entirely as panic and dread set in.

Maybe it wasn't me, he thought frantically. Maybe he just _died_. Naturally. But _down here _in the tunnels? _Right_ outside his gate as if he'd pushed the body to the extremity of his domain and left it? No, this was very bad. It had to be the work of his hands. There hadn't been a rope around its neck, though, unless he hadn't seen clearly in the dark. True, he hadn't stopped to look exactly. He was too horrified. The rope! He would go find it. If it was still hanging harmlessly in the iron tree, then it had not taken the life of the Persian, for he would have had to have cut him down, whether he remembered it or not.

He made his way at a frenzied run to the torture chamber, burst through the door (which opened with a terrible double bang—bang) and ran to the tree. He cried out in horror before he even looked up to determine whether the rope still hung in its place, for as he approached he was suddenly met by dozens of himself racing toward him, unmasked, emaciated and filthy, clothing in tatters, knuckles _and face_ bleeding. He heard the shriek and glanced around to determine its source, entirely unaware it had come from his own lipless mouth. The monsters all turned to look as well, glancing in various directions as the mirrors threw his reflection back at itself again and again to infinity. As he stumbled to a stop at the foot of the tree, the creatures approaching him also stopped and he took the moment's reprieve to raise his eyes to the tree to search for the noose. _It was not there_.

No! he cried out and a mournful echo cried "No! No!" all around him. He put his hands over his eyes and wailed a terrible piteous wail such as might issue from the grave. Then he moved his hands from his eyes and jumped in horror at the scrawny bloody beings which surrounded him. Brilliant! he told himself. He'd forgotten just how terribly brilliant the torture chamber really was. Good thing it was for others, not himself. He closed his eyes a moment, collected his bearings, turned his face toward the floor, reopened his eyes and walked carefully to the door without looking up.

_Until he struck the wall_.

Partially shielding his eyes, he looked up to see how he could possibly have missed the open door, and his heart filled with sick dread as he recognized the source of the double bang he'd heard as he entered. One bang as the door slammed open, bouncing off the mirrored surface. The second as it slammed _closed_, leaving him trapped within his own terrible device.

* * *

This is where I was at 9:00 this morning and was considering posting it here... I think that might have been to early, though it was a nice final line, I thought.

* * *

He ran his hands over the mirrored walls, though he knew it was no use. There were no handles, no knobs, no way to open the door from the inside. He made certain of that to avoid escape. He immediately resigned himself to death, for no one had ever escaped the torture chamber and no one ever would. Even as he admitted that he would die here for certain, an instinct for self-preservation took over. Prisoners in Persia had always been dropped into the torture chamber barefoot so that they could not use their shoes to break the mirrors. Breaking the mirrors at least, would delay madness, for the intense heat without the illusion of being lost in the forest, would be less damaging. He kicked out of his shoes and tried the heel at the near-most panel first tentatively and then with all his strength, his arm arcing high over his head, the heel of the shoe crashing against the mirror with a terrible ringing sound and all the while, the frantic image of himself repeating this action again and again to infinity surrounding him. Likely he would go mad rather faster than the least of his prisoners!

The shoe had scarcely made a scratch. The damn thing was too well-built.

It was fitting that he would die here, in his replica of the device in which he'd killed so many. He faced himself in the mirror. He hated to face himself, both literally and figuratively, and now he had to do both at once. He looked at his reflection and considered the torture chamber. The idea was to reflect the tree over and over again, creating a forest. The fact that the mirror reflected his face as well made it all the worse and he wondered that all the years since he'd constructed it and as a device of torture, it had never occurred him to him make the connection between torture and mirrors until now.

Despite the fact that he knew better, an instinctive part of his mind glanced around for help when all the lights came on, but an instant later the rational part of him pointed out that this was only the next step in the process—the light that brought on the maddening heat. He looked up again to the tree and it occurred to him to wonder how was he to end his life when he could take no more, with the Punjab lasso gone? Christine had once tried to strike her head against the wall as a means to suicide, but he doubted it would work. A hard enough whack would knock him unconscious and there he would lay, unable to finish the job. If he were fortunate enough, though, the body would expire before it could regain consciousness. _If_ he were fortunate. But when had he ever been fortunate?

It was critical to remain calm, he thought as he felt the heat rise. Nadir had somehow managed to find the trapdoor in the floor without even knowing in advance that the door was _in_ the floor, so surely knowing it was there—indeed, having built it himself!—he could surely find it. Unfortunately, he had somehow stepped away from the panel that he knew contained the door to the Louis-Philippe room, and he now had to begin his search as though he knew nothing of the architecture of the room.

He stepped to the nearest wall, took off his coat and laid it carefully on the floor. It would keep him from overheating too quickly while he looked and would also mark his place against the wall. He loosened his collar and fell to his knees to run his fingers carefully along the floor. It was cooler on the floor, but already the heat was oppressive.

He tried to remain rational. The door was not against the wall; it was not against any wall, but it was not exactly in the center of the room either. This in mind, he kept one hand against the wall and the other stretched out as far as he could reach toward the center of the room, his eyes carefully locked on the floor for the sight of the nail. It wouldn't take long to find. Once around the perimeter this far in, if he hadn't found it, it couldn't be more than once more around. But he was already feeling so hot, despite being on the floor and having already removed his coat. He felt faint and regretted having so dehydrated himself in the Communists' dungeon. His tongue swelled to fill his blazing mouth.

He glanced up. If it hadn't been so terribly hot, it would have been a lovely forest. He congratulated himself on its creation and instantly rebuked himself. _It is not a forest. It is _not_ a forest! It is _one single tree_. It is a room. It is merely a room. _But it wasn't helping, for it looked _so_ like a forest! A lovely deciduous forest with green leafy trees and chirping birds. _Chirping birds_? And he'd acted like Christine was so stupid for suggesting that birds were in the trees! But she _was_ stupid! He closed his eyes. _I am five levels underground. I am five levels beneath the Opera, and there are _no trees_ here, save _one_, which I myself built of _metal_. There are no trees, and _there are most certainly no birds_!_

He opened his eyes and fixed them on the ground. Must not look at the trees. They were not there unless he believed they were, and seeing would lead to believing. He shuffled forward on his knees carefully. He took off his shirt, not only to cool his body but also to leave another marker, this time one by which he could later gauge the distance between the place where he was confident that he could easily find the door and the place where he realized he was overheating too rapidly, that his mind was slipping away. He was fading fast, his vision darkening. He stretched out on the hot floor and rolled to his back in an effort to stay cool. It was useless. He had to find that trapdoor and fast. He desperately writhed out of his trousers and slid across the floor again, both hands out ahead of him groping and straining.

He could hear a voice in the distance calling, but he tried to ignore it. He was _most certainly_ mad now. He would not hear the rain falling or the lion roaring, for he needed to be outside to make those things happen, but the madness was inside his mind, and there was no telling what he might hear instead. For now, it was voices. Voices, voices, screaming his name. No one was there, but he could not help but raise his head at the sound of his own name and when he did he looked into his own eyes there before him once again. Hundreds and hundreds of pairs of his own terrible yellow eyes with blood running into them from the gash on his head. He couldn't tear his eyes away from them! But he must. He had to get out of here.

Think. The trapdoor that Nadir had found lead beneath to the place where the barrels were stored. They'd been flooded by now, but at least it would be cooler there. From there, he knew, as Nadir had not, that there was another trapdoor, if he could retain his senses long enough to follow the corridor to find it. Down Nadir's trap door, past the barrels, down the dark corridor at the end, around twisting bends would eventually lead him to a small door in a wall which would take him back to the Communists Dungeon where he had just been. He could easily crawl back up those steps... back... up...

He searched in vain. There was nothing. Nothing. He heard a terrible wailing sound like a siren and looked around again. What was it? _Who_ was it? This was the end, for it was himself. He sprawled on the floor of the torture chamber, sweating and panting the last of his life away. It gets worse and worse, he thought, for if three months earlier he had feared being discovered in the coffin and exposed, being found here like this would be far, far worse. He contented himself with the thought that he would never be found while there was anything left to expose. The room was too well-concealed. No one would find it. His body would rot beneath the fiery artificial sun.

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**Shameless Begging**: Well, what do you think? Too predictable? To cliché?

**More Begging****:** You know, I rethought that birthday thing... Why not leave me a review as a gift? It costs nothing and makes me infinitely happy! (Especially those folks who have been with us for 66 chapters and haven't said anything at all yet... I wonder who they are!) Last chance for a full year! C'mon! It's for good luck!


	67. Chapter 67: No Ruz

**(Lots of) Author's Note(s):**

(1) Okay, here's another chapter. Again, life is taking over and putting me in the situation where I don't get to write every day. I'm not going to stand for that, but I have to work on my schedule a bit. I apologize, even though I know you are not complaining, for the times when I go longer than usual without posting. I've determined that a chapter I'm happy with takes about 2.5 hours--or at least, that's what today's chapter took. Theoretically, it could have been better, but that would take longer. You don't really need to know that, but I'm sharing anyway. Knowing that it's 2.5 hours minimum per chapter means in the future when you ask "When will you update" I'll be able to speculate. For example, if I fold all the clothes RIGHT NOW and clean up the bedroom between 2:00 and 4:00, I can do some masters degree work between 5 and 6... then perhaps again from like 7-8 or 8-9. That means that if I'm able to work from 9-11:30, I could theoretically put out another chapter tonight. But if my husband doesn't have any work to do at HIS computer, then I won't be at mine. Still, it'll be easy to whittle 2.5 hours out of tomorrow, so I can state with relative certainty that there will be a chapter either tonight or tomorrow **(BECAUSE AT THIS POINT THE WHOLE STINKING REST OF THE STORY IS FINALLY COMPLETELY WRITTEN IN MY HEAD AND NOW IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY!!)**

(2) I loved your reviews last chapter. What I meant by "predictable" was not that I thought Erik's ending up in the torture chamber was predicable but rather that it was too easy for you to tell what was going to happen next. And as to cliché, I guess it's not, though I sort of think it should be. All this time, you'd think someone would have put together the idea of Erik and a roomful of mirrors and torture together by now... I was figuring that it probably had been done before and I just hadn't read it yet. If it turns out I'm the first, though, that's great! (Doesn't Kay have a scene where he forces himself to go sit in there and look at himself as punishment for something he did? I seem to vaguely recall that, though I'm trying desperately to repress all those memories because I almost killed myself when I read the book.)

(3) Did anyone besides me put together the fact that when I posted chapter 66 it brought my wordcount total to 166,666? I also got exactly 6 reviews, one of which made a reference to demons and another of which said it was sadistic. Finally, I even got a PM that (affectionately and jokingly, I hope) informed me that I was as evil as the Khanum. Wow. I'm not that bad am I? Then again, all those 6's... Do you think this is a sign?

* * *

**Disclaimers:  
**I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

**When we left off**... Erik was in the torture chamber where the door had sort of accidentally been allowed to slam shut on him. He's lying in the sweltering heat nearly naked and nearly passed out.

* * *

It was Persia in all its glory, and the daroga was somehow in the courtyard of the Shah's palace—without feeling as though he were in any danger!—as if the whole matter of Erik had simply been forgiven. Strange, yes, but one didn't question the Shah's pardon anymore than one questioned anything else of the Shah's.

It was a festival, though Nadir was hard pressed to remember _which one_. Strange. A huge bonfire was burning in the center of the crowd and looking up he could recognize the faces of people he knew as they leapt over the flames. Around him everyone was dressed in colorful new garments and a feast was laid out on a table that seemed to stretch as far as he could see. All about him everyone was singing and dancing.

He felt a sudden sharp pain in his right side and clutched at his ribcage, doubling over as his breath rushed between his teeth. To his surprise, no one around him noticed his agony. In fact, no one around him seemed to notice him at all. The chanting of the crowd faded as he rubbed at his ribs. What had caused that sudden pain? Why did no one notice? He looked up and stared into the flames. Were his eyes were deceiving him? It was like no fire he had ever seen before. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The fire was gone.

The fire was gone but the pain was not. He was in total darkness lying on hard stone, and as he sensed a presence nearby, he knew was not alone. Slowly realization dawned and he recognized where he was. He was in a tunnel beneath the city of Paris. The festival was over four thousand kilometers away, and he was overcome with sorrow and homesickness. Then, realizing again that _he was not alone_ and remembering _why he was in the tunnel_ he put the two together: it must be Erik! At last after all this time!

Over the course of the week and some odd days since Elizabeth sailed for England, Nadir had attempted to contact Erik several times to no avail. The gate was always locked and no other passageways seemed readily accessible either. Of course, Nadir now had keys to the Opera and paperwork that proved he was there legally, so instead of lurking about its foundation looking for other passages, he had simply made his way inside and beneath the stage. Alas, Erik had not only walled off the outside passageways but the inside ones, too, and judging from the location of the gate, it appeared that it was something for which he had planned long ago. The only working passageway Nadir found led him to the same gate he'd found from the outside. Everything else led to dead ends.

Nadir's flat was not very far from the Opera—it was about 1.5 kilometers, but it was still quite a distance to walk as often as he needed to if he expected to catch Erik as he was coming or going, so as he had no particular obligations that required he be at home, he simply left instructions for Darius and temporarily moved his toiletries and essentials into a room at the Opera and planned to be there for a while. He had then descended to Erik's gate, made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard floor and waited.

Sadly, Erik did not emerge for days, and Nadir had been forced to leave several times to deal with the mere essentials of living. He had returned each time wondering if perhaps Erik had slipped out (and perhaps even back _in_) while he was above and he had missed it, so at last, though it was a rather unsettling, perhaps useless, and definitely frustrating situation, he reflected that he had made a promise regarding Erik yet again, and promises... well, they were rather like Erik's secrets; they needed to be kept, so he had carried down in a sack food and water enough to last a few days and prepared to endure the harsh tunnel for as long as it took.

Somehow he had fallen asleep! Somehow, in spite of the uncomfortable surroundings, he had actually fallen asleep! No doubt he was simply exhausted enough after keeping watch for Erik so long, but it was still intriguing to have been so _deeply_ asleep enough to be _dreaming_! And dreaming of home at that! He had not dreamed of Persia—indeed, he had not called it "home"—in all the years he'd been in Paris, yet now, suddenly, he was both dreaming of it and missing it at this critical moment where what he had been waiting for—for Erik to emerge—actually happened.

He struggled to see in the darkness. The figure that had approached was retreating in the direction from which it had come. In his mind he struggled to get up, but his body was stiff and sore from hard surface in which he'd slept. By the time he managed to push himself from the ground onto his hands and knees the other presence was gone. He staggered to his feet still clutching his side, which hurt terribly from having had a rather harsh interaction with Erik's foot. He rubbed at the spot and looked around. The other had left the gate open. He scrambled back to the place where he'd been lying to pick up the package he'd brought and hurried down the corridor forgetting the pain for the moment.

As quickly as he went, he could not catch the other and he eventually emerged from the tunnel into a room laid out for a funeral. He stopped in the entrance of the tunnel. Could this be some bizarre variation on the torture chamber? Was this intended to be his funeral? He looked around without getting closer. The room was in shambles. Heavy red tapestries lay strewn about the floor, the coffin on its dais was pushed askew. There was an enormous organ that filled an entire wall and pages and pages of music lay on it, around it, and were cascading off it. An organ was not entirely out of place, associated with either the Opera or Erik. But the coffin! Why was there a coffin in here? What morbid spectacle had Erik dreamed up now? No doubt he expects me to open it and look inside, Nadir thought. Well, no chance of that happening! The door on the other side of the room was open and though he knew not where it led, he strongly suspected that any place was better than a room that contained a coffin of which he was reasonable sure Erik had placed.

He crossed the room giving the coffin a wide berth lest anything or anyone should leap out of it. He tried the floor carefully with one foot before stepping into the parlor. "Erik?" he called aloud more to announce his own presence than to elicit a response. "Erik, are you here? Erik! I have a..." he trailed off, then added quietly "a message for you." The parlor was as he remembered it except... _messier_.

Erik was a precise man, a careful man, if man he could be called. If nothing else, Nadir knew this about him for certain. Every step he took was measured, calculated. It was rarely possible to observe Erik undetected, for when he thought he had, he learned later that it had all be part of Erik's plan. It was entirely inconsistent with this image of him that his parlor should be in such disarray. Nadir wandered slowly through it, ever vigilant lest Erik take him by surprise. "Erik!" Nadir called yet again. The silence in the house on the lake was oppressive.

There was a small kitchen that appeared unused with a tiny nook set for dining but also apparently unused. There was the Louis-Philippe room with its attached bathroom. There were a few other rooms: one containing books, one that appeared entirely empty, and one with a locked door that Nadir could not open. No doubt there were more rooms whose entrances were secret. Erik could have disappeared through a trap door and been back at the level of the city by now, Nadir reasoned. Even so, he tucked the package he was carrying under one arm and rapped on the door with the opposite hand, calling the monster's name again.

He opened and closed drawers in the kitchen looking for something with which to pick the locked door, for it was possible, though unlikely, that Erik had simply locked himself behind that door, rather than fled. He was standing in the kitchen digging through a completely unorganized drawer looked for something just a _bit _smaller than this butter knife in his hand when he heard a sound that pierced his soul, caused him to shudder, made him feel as though his heart had missed a beat. And it went on. And _on_. Someone—some_thing_—was in agony. Nadir felt his eyes suddenly pricked with tears though why he could not have put it into words had it been required to save his own life. The hair on his arms bristled and his skin turned to gooseflesh. The package dropped from its place beneath his elbow. He shivered as he turned and sought the source of the terrible shriek that resonated around him without end.

His legs moved him mechanically to the door of the Louis-Philippe room, then into it. Heat emanated from the wall. The sound came from behind this wall, then suddenly, it died. Memories of the torture chamber flooded over him and he felt as though he could fall to weeping at any moment. It was surely in use in the same manner in which remembered it. He gasped for breath.

Forcing himself to focus on the present moment, he wondered what poor soul had chanced to fall in _this_ time—or be _dropped_ in, for falling in was rather impossible with the Opera cellars so inaccessible as they presently were—and how to get him out. He ran his hands over the walls, pushed every protrusion, lifted the few remaining curios on the mantle without success and at last, in frantically running his fingers over, around, under and behind _everything_, found a tiny lever under the edge of the bureau. The wall trembled and then opened inward a few centimeters. He put his hands upon it and pushed.

Once released, it opened as easily as any door. On one side it matched the decor of the Louis-Philippe room and on the other was the smooth, hard surface of a mirror, but it yielded as easily as any normal door would to gush hot hair and reveal horrid hexagonal construction of the torture chamber. Nadir simply stared a moment in disbelief. The room was empty! Then from whence had come that dreadful sound? He glanced behind him into the Louis-Philippe room, then back. Peculiar.

But at last, just as he was about to close the door to the torture chamber and resume his search elsewhere, he happened to glance _down_.

The body on the floor was no longer stretched out to release heat but instead was curled, knees to chest as a baby sleeps, though the arms were wrapped about the head as though to protect itself from the blinding light and oppressive heat. Nadir tried to step toward the body but found his mind prevented him from easily walking into the torture chamber. He pushed the door open as far as it would go. There was a chair rather close beside the bed and he pushed it into doorway to the torture chamber, lest the door slam shut leaving him trapped in there and no one on the outside save perhaps Erik, who it was difficult to imagine had changed much since three months earlier when he'd laughed upon learning Nadir and Raoul were inside. Only once he was absolutely certain the position of the chair was stable did Nadir step inside and he did so tentatively, carefully, placing himself on his toes and moving slowly.

The wave of emotion that struck him when he saw the body drove him back several steps, gasping for breath. He surveyed the room more carefully, then dared to look back at the body in its center. Strewn to the many far corners of the room were a worn coat, a pair of muddy trousers, a once elegant dress shirt, a pair of shoes, and a pocket watch that had no doubt fallen from the coat. Littered immediately about the body were the undergarments the poor soul had worn immediately prior to his horrible demise. The body itself was horrifying to look upon, as it was sharp and bony with protrusions in all the wrong places. Nadir held his breath and took a step closer, not daring to believe what he was already sure was true. But it was true. It was indeed Erik. Nadir backed all the way to the Louis-Philippe room, falling over the chair that he'd used to block open the passage. He turned to the bed, then the floor, then out into the hall, frantic. Absurdly the phrase _She'll kill me_ entered his mind, though it was certainly not his fault if Erik took his own life. Passing through the parlor and down the hall in desperation, he happened to glance into the room with the organ. And the coffin. It was morbid, but at least he was well-prepared. He took up one of the curtains lying on the floor, bundled it up in his arms and carried it back to the torture chamber to wrap around its unfortunate victim, for a body needed to be respected even—or perhaps especially—in death.

He kept his eyes off the unfortunate Erik as much as possible, but it was no use. Even when he looked away he saw himself and Erik reflected a myriad of times all around him. At last he stretched out the fabric of the curtain across the full span of his arms, scooped up the body, turned and rushed to dump it on the bed of the Louis-Philippe room. After he had gone back for all the personal belongings, he carefully closed the door, vowing to discover later how to disable the terrible device once and for all.

Such were the customs in this country that the body should be cleansed and dressed before placed in a coffin for burial. Sadly, there would not be a proper funeral with hearse and procession, though he could lay him to rest with _some_ semblance of dignity. He'd have to get him _dressed_ at the very least, and the clothing from the torture chamber was hardly appropriate. He searched the house for a wardrobe and was puzzled to find it in the room that contained the coffin. How long exactly _had_ Erik been planning to die? Well, it didn't matter now, he thought, dragging himself back to the Louis-Philippe room to perform what he hoped would be a once-in-a-lifetime and never spoken of act—dressing Erik. But as he rolled the body onto its back he withdrew in sudden shock, for those were not the lifeless eyes of a corpse but the wide-open frantic eyes of a madman, the fear-filled eyes of a being in utter shock. Looking more carefully Nadir could see the slight rise and fall of the ribcage covered by skin and oh so little more, and the faint pulse beating in the temples. Then he turned his eyes away, for he knew how little Erik liked to be looked at in any condition. How horrifying this would be!

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**Shameless Begging****:** I know I didn't give you much more in the way of plot, but the muses insisted this chapter was necessary. Was it effective at least? Any helpful suggestions? And yeah... this chapter is a bit longer than the others, so a nice review as a reward will make it all worth while!

**PS:** This chapter has NO title because I had NO IDEA what to call it. Suggestions appreciated.

**PPS:** I'm calling off the "help name this chapter" contest because the muses have just revealed it's name: No Ruz, the name of the Iranian New Year festival of which Nadir was dreaming but strangely could not remember the name. And to the wonderful reader who suggested something about rebirth because Nadir found Erik lying in the fetal position and we might hope that this will be a new beginning for him, thank you for that because I think it helped lead me to this. After all, what does most every culture try to do at the new year? Learn from the past, resolve to live better, rededicate their lives, etc. etc. Hope this pleases all.


	68. Chapter 68: Sorry

**Author's Note****: **Total wrong-ness. This chapter is WAY shorter than what I usually give you, so I'm sorry (hence the title-just kidding!) and I will try to either get another chapter out late this evening or else a much longer one tomorrow. Hope that suits everyone okay.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Where We Left Off**: Nadir had just rescued Erik, who appears to be in utter shock, from the torture chamber.

* * *

Erik did not respond to his words or his—very timid and tentative—touch. His eyes were wide and seemed to stare right through everything without seeing. Nadir cringed at the thought, then reached into the terrible sockets to gently push the eyelids closed. The lids subsided as a dead man's might, and Erik responded as much as a dead man would. The only sign of life remained his shallow breathing and a faint pulse seen through the thin skin of his temple. Nadir managed to peel back the blankets and sheets beneath Erik and lightly cover him with the sheet, leaving the blanket folded at the bottom of the bed and unwinding the red curtain from his body to take it away.

He remembered too well waking up in the bed of the Louis-Philippe room following his own ordeal in the torture chamber, though his experience was, of course, somewhat different from Erik's. First, Erik had not gone below to the powder kegs and been nearly drowned. Second, judging by his appearance and the condition of his clothes, Erik had been in rather dire circumstances when he entered the torture chamber initially. Still, the end result was the same. Erik was in a state of semi-consciousness, incoherent on the bed.

Nadir made his way back to the kitchen, placed the hastily dropped package that was the primary reason for his visit on the countertop, and set to work to prepare a cup of cordial for when Erik came to his senses. He had a vague recollection of Erik pouring rum into the cup Christine had given him that day and, searching, he found a bottle quite readily and took it to the room where Erik lay, still and silent. What a peculiar turn of events this had been, he thought as he dragged the chair he'd used to prop open the door back to its previous location beside the bed. He sat and looked at the man on the bed. He didn't look so dangerous now. Of course, he would be absolutely mortified when he awakened and who could tell what behaviors strong feelings would lead to. He folded the clothes neatly and placed them beside the still body.

He stared at him for a moment. He was still terrible to look at, but he was far more pitiable this way. Poor man. She hadn't given him the details, but in light of the current situation he could guess how Elizabeth might have found him, and given the nature of women, it wasn't impossible to imagine how she might have felt sorry for him and eventually given herself over to the need to care for him. How had she resigned herself to that face, though, he wondered. Well, no matter. Erik would desire a mask when he was awake anyway, so Nadir set out to find one and located them rather easily in the room with the coffin. Such a strange contrast to the seeming normalcy of the Louis-Philippe room, and yet that was the one that contained the entrance to the torture chamber. Or were there other entrances to the torture chamber? He would likely find out as he dismantled the thing later.

He placed the mask on the bedside table and considered what Erik had experienced in the torture chamber. Heat, thirst, the unbearable illusion of being lost in a forest... The room should be as comforting and reassuring as possible when we woke. Looking about, Nadir found items of varying value and condition on the floor, on the sofa, still on the mantle but lying on their sides. He returned those that were unbroken to an upright state on the mantle and removed everything that was beyond repair.

* * *

Erik's mind came to life behind his eyes, which did not yet open. He was lying somewhere soft. There was a thin gauzelike fabric over him. The room was quiet but for the gentle rustling of someone moving through with a great effort to be noiseless. He was exhausted, hungry, sore, and sorrowful, but above all his throat ached with exertion and thirst. His eyelids felt as though they had been glued shut. And he remembered the torture chamber. He remembered the horror of realizing he'd locked himself in and the still greater horror of having been duped into seeing the forest. He remembered the desperate struggle with his clothing and the eventual surrender to the heat of the sun that was not really the sun, for the sun was far kinder. He heard a gentle swish of fabric against the edge of the bed as someone moved by. _Elizabeth._ Again she had had to save him. Oh, how would he explain this? And how would he explain the death of Nadir?

It got worse each time, he analyzed. First she had seen him unmasked, dreadful, yes. Utter humiliation. But it paled in comparison to the week of weakness in the bed of the Louis Philippe room and was absolutely nothing compared to the week of helplessness and delirium, entirely out of his realm and dependent completely on her for everything in the hotel room. Now this: the utter stupidity of becoming trapped in his own invention. A voice in the back of his mind cried out that it served him right, and he was too tired to argue with it.

He remembered again the desperate struggle with his clothing and suddenly this was far worse even than he'd previously thought. He was not only unmasked, he was un—well, un-everything'd. This was truly terrible. Things could not possibly get worse. Oh, his body was shaped normally enough, certainly; it wasn't _that_. Only his head was so terribly malformed. The rest of him was... well, _normal_ but for his blasted scrawniness. And with that, well, might as well be an exhibit for a group of arrogant students at a medical school to study the skeleton. Ah yes. Medicine. _That_ was her fascination. Well, maybe she'd _study_ him then. After all, hadn't he just been thinking that things couldn't get worse? They might as go ahead and prove him wrong then.

She was sitting in that chair now. He could feel a presence in the chair. No doubt staring at him, though he couldn't quite feel her gaze. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't. He tried to speak her name, but heard only a soft moan actually vocalized. It was no matter, for it achieved a response. Gentle hands held a cup to his twisted lips and he sipped. Ah! The warm wet liquid flowing into his mouth felt so delightful he would have cried out, but he could not.

"Erik."

Glued shut or otherwise, his eyes flew open in sudden fear at a male voice in close proximity. He shrunk back from the place where the voice had come, willing his vision to come into focus, which it eventually did.

"Daroga!" he collapsed back into himself and closed his eyes again. The moment of panic had exhausted him still further.

He was as heartbroken as he had been in that moment in the casket when he believed Christine held him then suddenly realized it was someone else, someone he did not know, and she had seen him unmasked. He was not as angry as he was at that moment, though, perhaps simply because he could not muster the strength with which to express anger. Instead he had simply stared up into the Persian's eyes a moment, then closed his own again. Where was Elizabeth? But he was exhausted and slipped away again.

So great was Erik's disappointment that the next time he awakened it was quite some time before he began to notice the sensation that something was out of place. Something was not quiet right. But at last it came to him, and when he opened his eyes and faced the Persian again he whispered, "Daroga! I was certain I had killed you."

The solemn face of the dark skinned man changed slightly. He said nothing but silently wondered if he had saved Erik only to feel the need to fear him. Erik felt his eyes close again as he wondered how the Persian had managed to escape him. No, he had not escaped. Erik could not remember harming him, but he had definitely tripped over his dead body outside the gate. "We are both dead then? Where are we?" He spoke the words as though from another world, without opening his eyes.

They had never been truly close, but the Persian had always acknowledged the need to treat Erik as a man, and fairly. Now he found himself given over to feeling sorry for the bony figure on the bed and he sought the reassure him as best he could, despite his quite rational fear of him. "Neither of us is dead, Erik, though I had rather a rough time with you there for a while. Open your eyes again and you shall see where you are. Look. You are in your own home."

Erik's eyes opened, blinked once, looked very confused and closed again. "I was certain I had killed you," he said again in a whisper, and then before Nadir could act upon his fear, "I am so sorry."

The fear fled and a new feeling of hope entered his heart. Erik was _sorry_. If a monster like Erik could feel such remorse, there was perhaps far greater hope for the world than he had ever imagined. Hope! _Sorry_. In a momentary lapse of all his former revulsion, he grasped Erik's hand in his suddenly. "All is forgiven, Erik, and I have a message for you. Something wonderful."

* * *

**Shameless Begging for Reviews:** Well?

**More shameless begging and a brief mindless rant (posted nearly 12 hours after the story was originally posted)**: Hey, what gives? If I don't beg much, I don't get any comments? Or if the chapter ends on a seemingly happy note I don't get any comments? That'll teach me to write anything happy ever again. Just you wait and see what I do next as a result of this. You thought chapter 55 was bad! Ha! Or 66? That was NOTHING. Just wait until you see what's going to happen in chapter 78. And it's all because you guys don't might comments when good things happen. So when Erik suffers, you'll only have yourselves to blame. So there. _Neah_.


	69. Chapter 69: Realization

**Author's Note: **At long last, here is chapter 69. It is only 1:00 and already today has _not _been a good day. Ugh. I am leaving for a very short time now to pick up something from a friend then buy a few items at the store, and then I believe I will be trapped in my very own brand of torture chamber writing the final assignment for a very boring class towards my second masters. That having been said, I'm about to _drop_ this program because I have never experienced anything so boring in my life. The bad news is that does not automatically mean more time to write. You see, a friend is coming to visit from overseas and I also need to study for the LPC exam, so, alas, I may be able to get out a chapter every two days or so, but I cannot simply finish the entire story this week as I wished. Damn. Double damn. And once again, no name. Suggestions welcome. (I'm just in too lousy a mood to come up with anything.)

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

**Previously**:  
Erik's eyes opened, blinked once, looked very confused and closed again. "I was certain I had killed you," he said again in a whisper, and then before Nadir could act upon his fear, "I am so sorry."  
The fear fled and a new feeling of hope entered his heart. Erik was _sorry_. If a monster like Erik could feel such remorse, there was perhaps far greater hope for the world than he had ever imagined. Hope! _Sorry_. In a momentary lapse of all his former revulsion, he grasped Erik's hand in his suddenly. "All is forgiven, Erik, and I have a message for you. Something wonderful."

* * *

"Wonderful," he echoed faintly.

"In a while, Erik. Rest first."

"Yes." And he slipped away again leaving Nadir to contemplate whether he had really meant he was sorry he had tried to kill him (_when _had he tried to kill him?) or was he sorry that he had _not_ killed him. With this in mind, he vowed to treat Erik still more carefully than he had moments earlier. He stood up, went to the kitchen and picked up the package again. Now that he'd told him he had a message for him, Erik would no doubt ask for it eventually. Best to have it close at hand. Back in the Louis-Philippe room, he sat with the package on his knees. No. He would be curious before he was stable, and it would distract him. He moved it to the floor. Then he paced between the kitchen and the bedroom until Erik opened his eyes again.

"Daroga."

"Yes, Erik." Even in this condition, he was still commanding. Nadir found himself hanging upon his words.

"Where are we, _really_?"

Nadir sighed. "Surely you recognize this room?" Erik nodded slightly. "It is where we really are. No tricks. I promise. You know how I feel about promises, don't you? They are like your secrets."

"Ah…" he paused. "How…" but he was fading again.

"Don't speak," Nadir told him. "Here. Can you hold this?"

There was an extremely awkward moment of Erik struggling upward, Nadir fluffing pillows behind him, Erik reaching for the cup, the sheets slipping away, much fumbling and then at last he was slouched against a pillow against the headboard holding the cup of cordial. Nadir let him finish it and took the cup away before suggesting, "Your mask is here if you wish it."

Erik's hands fled to his face and he muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse. Then he fumbled for the mask with one hand while partially covering his face with the other and ashamedly mumbling, "I am quite sorry, Daroga. I had no idea," in a voice that sounded as though he were about to break.

"It's… all right, Erik. Just…" It was time to change the subject. "How are you feeling?"

Erik's fingers fumbled with the ties of his mask, which slipped several times. Nadir politely averted his eyes and wondered whether it was appropriate to help or not. At last the mask was firmly in place Erik relaxed slightly. He closed his eyes and sunk further into the pillow. "Famished" he whispered in response to Nadir's question.

Nadir hesitated. "Er… what can I get you?"

Ah. This is was certainly new and different. When Elizabeth tended him she made the choices, brought him whatever she thought best, and as he'd been ill more than he'd been well in her presence, it was generally always very bland. Not that most things weren't relatively bland, but did they need to be _exceptionally_ so? This was a welcome deviation and with a little guilt for being glad she was not here at the moment and a little more guilt for what he was about to do he carefully began to list things he might like to have, and most of them were delicacies the Persian would likely have difficulty procuring.

What had he gotten himself into? "I'll… try. Umm… Erik? Will you promise not to lock the gate while I am gone?"

"If I locked the gate, Daroga, I would starve down here, would I not?"

Nadir backed away slowly. "I'll take that as a yes," he said. "There are… some fresh clothes here…" he said indicating what he'd brought in and then quickly glancing away again. Maybe Erik wouldn't notice he'd brought formal attire to bury him in. It was likely he would not, for Erik was always dressed formally anyway. He excused himself to begin the long journey above.

When he returned he found Erik masked, more or less half dressed and sleeping. He was actually a bit glad he was so weak, for perhaps he wouldn't react too violently to the fact that most of what he'd asked for was not available on short notice. When everything was set out on the small table beside the bed he woke him gently and slipped back out and closed the door softly.

Without bothering to wonder how the Persian knew to leave him alone, Erik sighed, removed the mask, and helped himself to everything on the tray. He was rather impressed with the efforts the daroga had apparently taken to garner some of what he had requested. For the moment he what he suspected had happened between him and Elizabeth slip his mind and called him a good man.

It is amazing what food, drink and a little kindness can do for a man. When Nadir returned three quarters of an hour later to remove the tray and see if Erik was sleeping, he found him fully dressed and perched on the edge of the bed, mask in place and rather attempting to look dignified.

"Ah, Daroga!" he greeted him as he always had, though not with quite as much confidence as he'd shown the night he came to retrieve the box which had so started this unique chain of events. "Thank you so much for your kindness, and I apologize for the inconvenience. Perhaps you will forgive me if I do not show you out. I am not feeling entirely well just yet, but I am sure presently I shall."

Nadir's countenance fell. "I'm afraid it's not quite so simple, Erik," he said. "I rather made a promise." He paused. This was _not_ easy. "I do not intend to attempt to follow you around in secret, for you are far to quick to fall for any of that…" He paused, then everything else came out in such haste that Erik scarcely heard it all didn't manage to grasp most of it in his not entirely recovered state. "…so I hope will simply permit me to stay, as a friend if that suits you, as a tenant if it comes to that. Whatever it takes, but I prefer we simply be honest with each other this time around. I rather didn't enjoy my stint in the torture chamber any more than I believe you enjoyed yours. Which rather reminds me that perhaps if you are feeling up to it you might instruct me how to dismantle it so that—it—never occurs again, don't you agree? Ah, but more importantly—unless you think that anyone might fall in in the meantime—ah, but we'd be here and merely let them out of course, so yes, more importantly—the message I am to deliver to you!"

Erik stared in bewilderment. 'What… message?" he finally managed.

"Why the message from the lady, Erik. A message from Elizabeth!"

Erik turned his head away. "Please," he said. "Do not speak to me of Elizabeth." He took a heavy shuddering breath.

Nadir stared in wonder. It was the same as he had acted about Christine! Elizabeth was wrong, then, he realized, and it was too late. Had he even any idea how to contact her? No, but she promised she would write. It was not difficult to put together. It _was_ difficult to imagine it—Erik in love with someone who actually loved him for himself, yes—but it was not difficult to put together the misunderstandings that had occurred. Nadir had simply assumed Erik was still entirely consumed with Christine, which accounted for his failure to respond to Elizabeth, but if such as not the case, then at last this was Erik's chance, for Nadir had no doubt at all about Elizabeth's feelings. If he'd had any doubts after the way she cried over him, the fact that had Erik not provided the means to procure the Opera, she would have pauperized herself to do it and _put it in his name_ convinced him entirely. But oh! It was obvious from Erik's dejected form that he'd had no idea. And now she was gone, perhaps never to return or at least not for a _very_ long while… Ah, pitiable man! But at least you have _one_ thing you've always wanted, yes. It cannot make up for the other, no, but perhaps it will console you some.

"I must, Erik, and I rather think you won't harm me for it as I believe it's twice I've saved your life now."

Still slouched with his elbows upon his knees, Erik glared at Nadir out of the corners of his eyes through the mask. "And what a wonderful life it is," he sneered.

"Don't say things like that Erik. She _does_ love you!" It was out before he could think twice and once it was he was happy for a moment for it would have been a difficult burden to bear in silence. At the same instant, however, he felt trepidation, for he was not sure whether Erik would weep with joy or fly into a rage at the idea of it. When he instead stared at him, utterly bewildered, he feared that perhaps he was still in shock, that perhaps the torture chamber had done permanent damage to him, or perhaps that he had misread Erik's feelings.

At last Erik broke the silence in a tone that betrayed no emotion at all. "Perhaps not as much or as fully as she loves you." The words were clipped short. His eyes burned in the mask. Nadir squirmed under his gaze.

"I—" _What?_ "I have—absolutely… no idea… what... that... means."

"Oh, come now, Daroga," the other said bitterly. "She is not the first woman to have done such a thing and I doubt she'll be the last, but you mustn't lie to me. You said yourself a moment ago you wanted us to be honest with each other. Do show you are as good as your word, Daroga. Admit the nature of your relationship with Elizabeth."

"Relationship!" he burst out. "I have no relationship with Elizabeth!"

Erik's jaw was clenched. "Then it was a one time thing?" he cried out incredulously. "It is worse! If you had betrayed me for love, perhaps—but this? But no, she _returned_ to you, Daroga. I know it. I have seen it. You who have known me so long, you _still_ cannot grasp that I know of things which others could not possibly know."

Nadir burst into laughter and Erik was nonplussed. He continued nevertheless. "Just admit it, Daroga. You were quite right in pointing out that I will not kill you. It seems I owe you my life twice over now, and I have it only once to give. Even so, it would not be wise to make me angry with your deceit. I might get angry enough to do something I do not intend." He shuddered at his own words. It was exactly what he had feared when he tripped over Nadir's body outside the gate. "Perhaps you did not even know of my feelings. It is true I did not tell you. Admit the truth now and we shall blame her, then. Women, it seems, cannot help themselves in these matters."

Nadir caught his breath, wiped his eyes and pressed his hands over his face while he gained his composure. "Erik," he began, suppressing another laugh, "You certainly do know things that no other could possibly know. If there is any relationship between Elizabeth and myself, neither she nor I know about it yet. There _is_ however—"

He was about to get to the part about the message when Erik rose to tower over him. He did not reach for him for he doubted his strength after the week in the dungeon and the day in the torture chamber, but he rather hoped he still looked imposing so he rose and looked down at the Persian sitting in the chair beside the bed. "I _saw_ you" he did his best to bellow at the man. "I saw you from the rooftop when you walked right past my Opera with your arm around her, her head on your shoulder, leading her in the direction of your flat. Now as I _own_ neither of you I cannot say what you should and should not do, but at the very least, admit what you have done with her!"

Nadir was no longer laughing. Instead he was sadly shaking his head. "Poor, poor Erik," he said standing and putting a hand on his shoulder, which made Erik shudder with the memory of Elizabeth. "I promise you… I _swear_ to you, I have done nothing with Elizabeth, nor shall I ever."

Erik's yellow eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to Nadir and looked into his eyes. He seemed to be telling the truth entirely, but— but… He could not endure it. He spun away and paced to the other side of the small room and stood with his back to the Persian. "But you _did_!" he cried out, in spite of the clarity of the man's eyes.

When the Persian did not respond, Erik turned to face him once again and saw that he was holding a large package and wore a sad smile. "Poor Erik who knows so many things, how can you not know this? But come. Look inside. There is a message for you, and a gift." He rattled the box a bit.

Erik approached him carefully, watching him through narrowed eyes. "What is it?"

"I told you before—it is something wonderful."

* * *

**Shameless begging**: I'm having a crummy day, though it's inappropriate to express exactly why on FFN. Nevertheless, reviews might cheer me up. (Even though I didn't torture Erik in this chapter, maybe a few of you can dredge up _some_thing to say...)


	70. Chapter 70: Gone

**Author's Note: **Well, I said I might not be able to update as often as I hoped, and yet today the story bugged me and bugged me until I went back and wrote again. So here's another chapter. I suppose the best thing I can say about updates is this: I remain committed to updating as often as possible, which, of course, is rather more often than most folks update. If, however, I suddenly begin to update less, please don't assume I am less committed but rather that something has suddenly come up in life. And if all else fails, PM or email me and I'll explain. My email address is available on FFN on my profile. Thanks!

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

**Previously**:

When the Persian did not respond, Erik turned to face him once again and saw that he was holding a large package and wore a sad smile. "Poor Erik who knows so many things, how can you not know this? But come. Look inside. There is a message for you, and a gift." He rattled the box a bit.

Erik approached him carefully, watching him through narrowed eyes. "What is it?"

"I told you before—it's something wonderful."

* * *

Erik crossed the room with two quick paces of his gangly limbs and took the box from him. It was an ordinary box wrapped in brown paper and rather heavier than it appeared. He turned it over and over, then perched on the edge of the bed with it.

"Might I suggest the parlor," Nadir said tentatively watching Erik fumble with the package.

Erik shrugged and moved to the parlor without responding. Nadir returned to the kitchen and chose a knife—but not a very sharp one—from the drawer through which he'd previously been rummaging for a lock-pick. He sat in the ornate wing-backed chair opposite an identical one in which Erik sat and offered him the knife tentatively. Erik accepted the knife, deftly slashed through the brown paper without appearing too dangerous, and returned the knife to Nadir handle first with a look that suggested _I already promised not to kill you, remember?_

Nadir didn't need to be able to see his face to know he was frowning as he peered into the box. He determined the reason soon enough as Erik's long bony fingers reached in and plucked out the velvet bag, which was amazingly flat and light compared to how he'd first sent it. Erik opened the bag and poured the few remaining stones onto his narrow palm and stared at them in disbelief. "It is as I suspected, Daroga—you have been proven wrong yet again!" He tossed the stones to the table with disinterest. "I give her diamonds and she does not even want them. It takes a special type of loathing to turn down such a beautiful gift."

"Or perhaps a special type of love, Erik. The kind that says 'I don't want your riches; I'd rather have you.'"

"Oh, please, Daroga. Spare me your patronization."

"You know better, Erik. Surely you have figured it out by now. You may try to convince yourself otherwise, but the truth is you have to see it. You will not admit it; dare I suggest you are afraid to admit it? No, it is for you to say _why_ you will not admit it, but you _must_ know it. Think harder, Erik. Why did she return them to you?"

He glared. "Well, I can not say for certain, but she did not return nearly as many as she _gave away._" He glared at Nadir. How many had he received, he wondered.

"I wouldn't say _gave_, Erik. Look at the rest."

There was a letter. He placed it aside. There was no knowing what it said or what emotion it might evoke. He would not read it in front of the Persian. He tucked it between the side of the box and what lay beneath it, which was—a contract? He lifted it out and glanced beneath. A deed? What—but there was more. He shuffled through a stack of legal documents. "What is this?" he said fiercely at, rather than to, the Persian.

"I think it would be wise to read them, Erik," was all Nadir could manage. He admitted to himself readily that it had been rather foolish to expect Erik to show delight, but this was not at all what he expected.

On a sealed envelope was written "Do not open unless absolutely necessary" in Elizabeth's writing. As if he need listen to her! he thought. But as he inserted a bony finger under the flap he was suddenly full of apprehension and stopped. Perhaps he'd better read that letter after all. Or the papers. Or...

"Leave me," he told Nadir.

The Persian was grinning. "Not a chance," he said.

Oh, the sick bastard was enjoying this! Erik put on his most careful I-don't-actually-care about-this-at-all look even beneath the mask. He felt certain he would need it, and he was right for as he scanned the numerous legal documents that remained loose within the box he got the idea that she had, in fact, taken the Opera from him, for document after document included her name. How dare she! Well, she surely didn't think he would leave, did she? What did she dare do with it? Did she really think she could exercise such power over him that he would not torment her as he had previous managers? It would be far worse, in fact, for this time, it would be _personal_. Even as he made the threat in his mind, though, he knew he would never have the heart to follow through. He wished the Persian weren't watching him so intently. But here was something odd indeed, he noticed upon a closer reading. "...acting as agent to the party named therein..." and "...the party in whose name these documents are rendered..." and "...upon whose behalf..."

"Upon whose behalf indeed!" he asked aloud. "The _party_ does not appear to be named at all!"

Nadir looked as though his face would split. "The _party_ often prefers not to allow his name to be known," he responded cryptically. Then he explained, "It is what the sealed envelope is for. Very few people have seen what is inside the envelope. I have not been permitted the honor, though I am rather certain of whose name is in there." His grin widened impossibly.

At this point, one can be reasonably certain that anyone possessing Erik's intellect had surely determined exactly what Elizabeth had done, what was in the sealed document and why it was sealed, yet it would seem not so from the way he continued to behave. Perhaps he could not admit it in front of Nadir, or perhaps he dared not admit it to himself. Nevertheless, it remains he must have known. Even so, he responded "How dare she? Well, I shall learn who he is soon enough, and then..." he trailed off implying a threat.

"I thought it was worth it, Erik. I hope you will forgive me."

Erik glared at Nadir. "Forgive you which of the numerous things for which I should not forgive you?"

"I had to... reveal your name. For the deed. Again, I thought it would be well worth it to you."

It was here at last that Erik finally had to give up the charade of pretending he could not grasp what she had done, for Nadir had all but said it aloud. And then he actually did.

"Perhaps you would like to go upstairs for a bit, Erik? Have a look around now that it is at last _yours_?"

But Erik's eyes were wide as though with fear. "Why?" was all he could say and Nadir feared another emotional break. What was he to do with an emotionally overwrought Erik? Even if he could be assured his safety, and he wasn't sure he could be, it would still be uncomfortable. What was he to say? Do?

Erik rose and paced the length of the parlor and back, the sealed envelope in his hand. "You would have me believe this document is a deed bearing my name?" he demanded.

"A transfer of the one that appears in her name as I understand it, yes."

"And you would have me believe she did this? With no reason, no cause at all?"

Nadir gave him a pitying look. "Surely she has a reason, Erik. You simply choose not to believe it. But does it matter? Surely you are pleased with the result."

"I could have done it myself," he said angrily. "I did not need her help. I certainly do not need her—" He stopped pacing suddenly and sunk back into the chair with a hand to his brow as though faint. He'd been about to say money, and suddenly it was clear to him how she'd managed it. "Then she did not simply _give_ them away!"

"I tried to tell you."

The envelope slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He was pale—even for him—about the eyes, the only part of his face that showed. "But the man... the bearded man..." he gestured his description, words failing him. "She... gave..."

"That is the lawyer, Erik. He had all this drawn up. Or rather, I think he actually did it himself. Elizabeth wouldn't allow any clerks involved."

"That's _all_ he is?" His voice was growl of disbelief. "He was in her home!"

"Where would you suggest we conduct business of this nature? Out in the open somewhere?"

He winced. The Persian was right. He suddenly realized his other mistakes.He retraced her steps in his mind. She'd come to the Opera with the Persian _(a last attempt to find him?)_ left with the Persian _(why?)_. She'd been visited by the rotund bearded fellow in the parlor. _(The lawyer. To make this happen. Oh God. Payment for his time and trouble.)_ He'd followed her then to the Opera _(finalization?)_ to Persian yet again _(delivery of the documents?)_ then to Raoul. That was the only piece that didn't make sense, but it could be explained away. _Something about Christine, perhaps?_ Whatever. It no longer mattered. It all made sense except—

"I saw her with you," he said tentatively. "It looked like a lot more than asking you for my name."

"Erik, the day you were on the rooftop—since when you do pass the time on the rooftop anyway?—she was _crying_ as I led her away. I don't know what you think you saw—or rather I suspect—but it seems you have made a _serious_ error. I only felt sorry for her for how hopelessly she was crying. What were you thinking to disappear like that? Christine you would not leave alone and Elizabeth you hide from? Honestly, what _were _you thinking?"

As thoughts came together he had the sense of impending doom, though he could not say why.

"I was thinking of her man in Germany and that I will not go through _Christine_ and _that boy_ again." he responded distantly.

"Germany!" Nadir had never heard Germany spoken of. "No, Erik. You are mistaken. It's not to Germany she's gone but England. And she said nothing about a man."

Erik stared at him for a moment then caught his breath. "Gone?"

Nadir nearly choked on the words. "When she thought you wished it."

Erik drew a sharp breath. Gone. _Gone._ She was gone. It was too late. He looked at the Persian with the regret of a man realizing he has signed his own death warrant. "Leave me," he ordered, and this time Nadir scrambled to his feet and headed for the door. "I'll go for now, but I'll have to return, Erik," he said, approaching the door. "I promised her I'd stay with you a while." His confidence left him. "Don't lock the gate, Erik. Please? I'll be just above. Please, Erik. We'll figure something out. It will be... it will be all right, I promise."

Erik's eyes were a dark and ominous as Nadir slipped out the door and across the lake.

Erik returned to the discarded legal documents piled hastily beside the chair, retrieved the dropped envelope and located Elizabeth's letter, back inside the box.

Erik,  
No need to apologize for anything. I imagine the fault is mine.  
Please accept my sincerest apologies if I've hurt or offended you.  
Your 'gift' for my assistance to Christine was, to borrow a phrase  
from our dear friend Nadir, a serious overpayment by any reckoning.  
I wished to return it, for it is simply too much, but feared that might  
offend you. I despaired at first, for I could not take so much from  
you, but then I remembered what you said the night of our ill-fated  
carriage ride, before everything turned bad. Your words regarding  
the Opera were, if I do not misremember them, "through the many  
times it has changed hands, it has always been mine but it is long  
since time that it were mine in name as well as in spirit." I could not  
agree more, Erik. I could never think of the Opera without thinking of  
you. You are hopelessly entwined. I hope you will be as overjoyed as  
I am to know that is now entirely yours, in all respects, as it should be.  
I know that you will ensure that it is does not forever lie vacant but is  
instead put to that purpose for which you designed it. I myself would  
be honored to attend its grand reopening; alas, this will not be possible,  
for I have been called away to London.  
I regret terribly not being able to say goodbye to you in person, dear Erik,  
but is as you wish it, is it not, for when I tried to come to you, I found our  
passageway hopelessly blocked and you have declined to meet me. I  
apologize for whatever I have done to anger you and hope that someday  
you will forgive me.  
As for my part, I will never forget you. If ever I visit Paris again, and I hope  
that someday I will, I will attempt to contact you through Nadir. Ah, I have  
almost forgotten to tell you about Nadir. I found him to be hopelessly  
secretive about you, which I trust you will view as a good thing. He seems  
quite trustworthy, thus I have asked him to deliver this to you and remain  
with you for a time. I offered him payment for his troubles but he was  
willing to accept very little, and I got the feeling that what he did accept  
was purely out of need more than out of desire for wealth. Perhaps you  
and he will come to some type of arrangement if a profit is made in the  
future, for I trust you have seen how he lives and perhaps can find it in  
your heart to improve upon that.  
My dear Erik, whatever you think of me for whatever reason, please know  
that I will think of you always and I hope that someday you and the rest  
of the world will see you as I do. I shall write again, though Nadir, when I  
have an address at which you may write me if you wish. Goodbye, Erik. I  
wish you all the best!  
Elizabeth

So she was gone, just like that. I will think of you always and away she went. But he had sent her away, it was true. He had left without saying goodbye, walled himself away after what Christine—yes, what _Christine_ said. Ah, Christine, who pointed out all the reasons why he could not have what he wanted, with her, with Elizabeth or with anyone else.

_I can't go on living like this, like a mole in a burrow,_ he'd told Christine long ago (and yet he had! what other choice did he have?). _I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays._ Of course he did. Didn't everyone want that? And he'd almost had it. Almost. Except he was still afraid to go out. Why was he so afraid to go out. He'd been out before and survived. But at the thought of it now, he trembled.

He retreated back to his room and fumbled with the tiny key that unlocked the drawer in the bureau. _I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. People will not even turn round in the streets,_ he'd told Christine. He plucked the mask from the velvet lining and ran a skeletal finger along the line of the nose of the mask. It still needed work, yes, but it was better than no nose at all.

Christine had scarcely reacted at all when he'd told her. Then she had begun to cry. She was afraid of him, even then. She had never even seen the mask he had created to wear for her. Perhaps if he had put it on _first_ and then addressed her... But he had not. And he could not fool himself anymore. It wouldn't have made any difference at all. How would Elizabeth's reaction have been different if he'd thought to show her? And did it matter at all now that she was gone? There had gone his chance at everything he'd once hoped for.

Yes, he had _hoped_ once, a long while ago. He had _believed_, even. _I am not really wicked,_ he'd told Christine sincerely. _Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself. If you loved me I should be as gentle as a lamb..._ But it wasn't true was it? It might have been at the time he'd said it to Christine, but by the time he'd at last had his chance, it was _too late_. He was no longer kind. After a life of pain and rejection, after a life of being shunned, never shown love of any kind, suddenly—unexpectedly!—he _had_ been loved for himself! And what had he done? Had he been gentle? No. He had been cruel at times taken advantage at others. And then he had left her. He truly _was_ wicked. If everything else did not, _this_ proved it. His chest heaved as he could no longer contain his emotion.

_We would enjoy ourselves so much that perhaps you would journey above more often... _Elizabeth had told him. _You spoke of being tired of living your life that way, Erik,_ she'd said in the most patient of voices. He ground his teeth together at the thought of it. Living above. With her. Like _normal_. He had dismissed the thought! Called her foolish! Ah, but who was the fool now? _I thought perhaps such a thing were actually possible,_ she had said. _I got the feeling you once believed so, too._ And finally _You will be entirely free again._ Free. He was certainly free now, wasn't he? Free to rot in the cellar beneath this cold unfeeling monument he'd built as a temple to the beauty of music. It was _his_ now. For as long as he lived. How ironic. He twisted the handsome mask in his hands. He stretched it into a hideous monstrosity and marveled that it was still not as ugly as he.

_Meeting you was entirely unexpected—but wonderful. I mean that, _she'd said once. _I don't regret that for a moment._ He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of the mask, mutilating the handsome face, tearing it with his nails, then flung it across the room and fell to his knees sobbing again.

* * *

**Shameless begging**: I know, I know... even when it's happy it's sad. I don't guess it can stay this way forever, but can you blame him? Not getting what you want is bad enough. Knowing you could have had it and you totally messed it up on your own is quite worse.


	71. Chapter 71: Purpose

**Continuity warning:** I noticed an error I made in Elizabeth's letters. In her first letter she promises to leave instructions for how to contact her and in the second letter, I forgot to address that, so I'm going back and putting it in. Of course, at the time she writes the second letter, she cannot be entirely certain of where she's staying, so she'll have to simply promise to write when she has more information, but she should do that. Otherwise, she's not as good as her word and, though she's not entirely honest as we'll learn later :evil grin: she hasn't out and out broken her word to Erik yet, so she shouldn't start now. So, just know I changed—or am in the process of changing—that.

* * *

**Author's Note****: **Oh my god! Why didn't any of you TELL me about the continuity error in Chapter 10 where I reference a second unmasking of Erik by Christine when that didn't happen in the book? I don't know how I let the movie/play leak in, but I did and none of you called me on it. Oh, horror, horror, horror! (Well, not really. I just have to re-upload that file and delete or change that part. But STILL!)

* * *

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

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**Dedication****:** This chapter is for SilverDiva who likes characters who THINK. Hope you enjoy it, Diva!

* * *

He couldn't stay there long, however. Something drew him back to the parlor to read the letter over again. It still bothered him. It bothered him that she blamed herself when she had done nothing wrong, it bothered him that she left the country without saying goodbye, even though it was his own fault she did, and it bothered him that she had taken it upon herself to procure the deed to the Opera on his behalf without so much as checking to make sure he wanted the responsibility. Of course, she would say that he had made his wishes known the night of the carriage ride and it was difficult to argue with that. Perhaps it most bothered him that it was a gift of massive proportion, even if payment had been made from his store, and he was rather unaccustomed to receiving gifts of any kind. Yes, that was it. What was the appropriate response? And should he be offended that she had not accepted _his_ gift?

Then there was that presumptuous statement: I know that you will ensure that it is does not forever lie vacant but is instead put to that purpose for which you designed it. Did she think because she had a hand in acquiring it she had the right to tell him what to do with it? Now that it was his, had he to do anything at all with it? What if he merely wished to _live _here? _Then _what? Did the giver of a gift get to dictate what would be done with it? True, his gifts to Christine had come with strings attached, he thought with rue. Such manipulation! But what else could he do in desperation? Besides, he could not remember having been given a gift, so he had not a single memory of a gift sincerely given or received on which to base his concept of it.

_I myself would be honored to attend its grand reopening._ The nerve! What made her think there would _be_ a grand reopening? And if she would not be there, what was the point in tormenting him with the thought that she would have liked to have been? And what right did she have to presume he would share it with the world again after all they had done to him? What responsibility did he have to _them_?

And as he argued with himself that he owed no one anything, he suddenly remembered standing between the organ the coffin on the day he'd met her. She was shackled in the parlor. Shackled! It wasn't just for his face that they called him a monster then. Oh, why had she ever returned? But the memory of that moment between the coffin and the organ, questioning the meaning of a life lived alone would not let him rest, for he had also asked himself _Of what use was music, composed solely for one's self_?

Perhaps some gifts do come with a responsibility. And life? Did that come with a responsibility too? Responsibility to whom? For what? And _how much_?

Something had changed him. He could not do what he had done before. He would live or he would die, but he could not hover between the two like a specter any longer. He threw down the letter, rubbed away what was left of his tears with the heel of his hand, replaced the mask, and went above to look for Nadir.

* * *

"Daroga," he began when at last he found him with his feet on the desk in the managers'—or more appropriately now manager's—office, "What is _the point_ of life?"

Nadir sat forward slowly and took his feet down. He rubbed his brow with a dark hand before looking up at the gaunt figure that towered over him. "It's a little early to get that introspective, Erik," he said. "Why do you ask?"

Erik began pacing. "Well, here we are. I have—" he gestured "_this_, and am apparently stuck with _you_ for an indefinite period of time... _What_ are we going to _do_?"

Nadir put his elbows on the desk and made a tent with his fingers. "We-el," he said slowly, drawing the word out, giving himself some time to think, unsuccessfully, though, for he needed far longer to think about such a question than the few seconds it gave him. The truth was, he hadn't the vaguest idea how to answer the question. He had promised to do his best to ensure that Erik didn't harm himself, and thus far he'd come very near to botching _that_ job. Making sure Erik didn't make a menace of himself to society was certainly a priority as well, but he wasn't going to admit that aloud in a room with Erik in it and only one obvious exit. Beyond those two goals... well, he hadn't really expected to get that far, even, let alone have to think past them. And it was _very_ early in the morning, he'd realized since he'd come above. He'd lost all track of time in the tunnel and couldn't even begin to guess at what hour Erik had tripped over him, but it had been at least a day since, and he hadn't slept since the sleep that had been brutally interrupted. He was tired and had just been contemplating heading back to his room—for he'd settled in quite comfortably, actually—for a nap, when suddenly Erik had filled the doorway and presented this very puzzling existential question. He shrugged. "What would you _like_ to do?"

Erik paused in his pacing. "Does that _matter_?"

Nadir frowned. Was it a trick question? "I should think so," he said carefully. "Why wouldn't it?"

"When has it _ever_?" He bit the words off with what seemed to be a controlled anger. He paced with an unexpected urgency. "Suppose I said I would _like_ to murder Raoul de Chagny. It wouldn't _matter_, would it, because _you_ would say that I should _not_, isn't that so?"

Nadir sat forward in sudden alarm "_Would_ you like to murder him? Is that really what you would _most_ like to do?"

Erik stopped pacing again and frowned at him, then, when the Persian did not react he realized he could not see the frown behind the mask and blurted out, "No, but that isn't the point!"

"So you _don't_ want to murder him?"

Erik threw up his hands and resumed pacing. "Amazingly, not at the moment, no."

"Why are we having this conversation, Erik?"

"Have you some idea of what we should be doing _instead_?"

Nadir looked at the ceiling and sighed. That nap was obviously not going to happen. "None. You asked me what _we_ should be doing. _I_ intend to stay here as long as you are not a danger to me because I made a promise that I would. That's as far as _I_ have planned. I suggest that in order to decide what _you_ are going to do, you consider what you would _like_ to do."

He sighed. He abandoned pacing and slumped into the chair across from Nadir. "What do _you_ think I want?"

"Do you mean to tell me you don't know yourself?"

"Stop being difficult and answer the question, Daroga!" he fairly shouted, banging on the desk with the heel of his hand.

"It has been a very long time, Erik. It may not seem so long, but things are very different from the way they were. If you had asked me a few months ago I might have said Christine."

"You would have been right." He pointed a bony finger at the Persian. "But I could not _have_ her, you see?"

"I think so." Honestly. Where _was_ this going?

"You see then how what I would _like_, what I _want_, becomes irrelevant, then, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"I suppose."

"So I ask you again, what is the _point of life_?"

"Do you mean to say that life is not worth living if you cannot have what you want?"

"No! That is _not_ what I said. If I _meant_ to say that, I would have _said_ exactly that. Listen again, and listen carefully. I did not say that there _was not_ a point. I merely asked you _what the point is_!"

"You think _I_ know?" He leaned back in his chair with a look perplexity.

Erik pushed his chair away from the desk and turned away in frustration. "I had hoped you might have some idea, yes!" he said with annoyance.

"I'm flattered, Erik."

"You are not helping, Daroga." He put his elbows on his knees and his fingertips on the sides of his forehead, desperately wishing it were possible to massage his temples _through_ the mask.

Nadir sensed his seriousness and sat forward leaning his own elbows on the desk again. "All right, I'm trying, Erik. So you can't have Christine..."

"Not interested anyway," Erik growled.

"You're joking." It was an exclamation.

"Not in the least." His tone was flat and lifeless.

"Elizabeth then."

Here he became animated once again. "What are you a _mind_ reader? Of course! And do I _have_ her? Do you _see... her... here_?" He spread his arms wide encouraging Nadir to look.

"No, Erik, of course not, but—"

"But _nothing_. She _is not here_. What I want becomes irrelevant, therefore we shall leave it out of the equation entirely. The question is _What shall I do_? Oh, I could lie here and waste away to nothing because I do not have what I want. I have done that for years, Daroga. Shall we go over more of what I want? You want to hear it? You have not heard it enough, perhaps? I want to be like everyone else. I want to be able to walk down the street just _once_ and have no one _point_ or _stare_ or _scream_. I have told you before I want a little house or a flat of my own, not underground, not here, mind you—out there!—with a wife in it who loves me. I want—God, that I should say these things to you!—I want my mother to say she loves me and that she's sorry for my entire pathetic childhood. These things will _never happen_ Daroga, do you see? And lying around crying about it—yes, crying, I admit it to you, you who were once my enemy and now the only one who speaks to me at all, I admit it to you—is not going to make it happen. Not only will it not _make_ it happen but it... It's... pointless. It would be better to die and be done with it, but—"

"Erik, no," Nadir tried to interrupt, but Erik silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"It would be better to die and be done with it, but if I am not going to do that—and I'm _not_—then it would be best to do something, don't you agree?"

Nadir was beyond confounded. "Yes, of course."

"But _what_? You see, that is the point. It would be best to do something. But _what_? And what I want is not relevant, apparently. So if you must decide what to do and what you want may not figure in at all, _how do you decide_?"

Nadir sighed. "I suppose you do what is _right_, Erik."

"And how do you know what is right? No. Wait. The better question is: How do _I_ know what is right? Would you say I have been treated _right_ all these years? Do I even have the slightest idea what right is? How could I _possibly_ know?"

Nadir closed his eyes. It had seemed so simple when Elizabeth suggested it. Go to the Opera. Take care of Erik. Oh, yes. Simple. Certainly. Yet the answer was simple even if the situation were not. He looked at him. He waited to be certain he had his full attention. He looked him in the eyes. "If you did not know, we would not be having this conversation."

He changed the subject quickly. "Do you know what she expects me to do with it?"

"With what, Erik?"

"It! With _it._ With..." his gestured all about him with both hands, "..._this_!"

"What?"

"_Reopen_ it."

"And this upsets you?"

"Yes!"

"Why?

"Because of _them_! They are not... _worthy_! They don't... _deserve_ it. They didn't _conceive_ of it, didn't _work_ for it, haven't _suffered_ for it. They have—" He pressed both hands over the mask. "no _right_ to it. The world does not deserve to share it. _They_ are a part of the world, and the world has shown no kindness to me. The world is... it is _terrible_, Daroga."

Their eyes met again as he removed his hands from his face. "The world is a terrible place at times, Erik," Nadir said carefully. "But it is the _only_ place in which we get the chance to live this life."

Erik was nodding sadly. "I was afraid you might say something like that. So, I am not meant to get what I want. What is it I _am_ meant to do then?"

"I fear that is something only you can determine."

"I was afraid of that." His arms collapsed so that both hands were hanging limply between his knees and his head hung dejectedly above them. "I would have liked to have said die. Do you know how long I have said that? Believed that? It would make sense, would it not, that I look the way I do because I was meant to have died? But no. Do you know how many times I have _tried_ to die? Do you know how many times I have been _so close_? Why, just yesterday, surely! Why did you find me?"

"I heard you screaming,"

"But _why_? Why did _she_ find me? That is the greater mystery, really. It was the most accidental, unlikely, preposterous set of circumstances you can _possibly_ imagine. And yet it happened. It is as though I am not _permitted_ to die. A few days ago—no, it must be longer than that now—how long is it since Christine's engagement to the Comte was broken off? But it is no matter. The _point_ is that I stood on the roof and I nearly jumped, Daroga do you hear me? _I nearly jumped_. I suppose I am fortunate for that sudden change of mind, Daroga—for it would have been quite painful I tell you—for if I had, I _could not _have died."

He fell silent and dropped his head and hands again. "So instead, I must determine what it is that I am meant to do."

"Haven't you any idea at all?"

"I imagine I start with her suggestion." It was a disgusted growl, but Nadir wondered if secretly Erik was thrilled. After all, he would now have complete control without resorting to extortion.

The Persian stood. "All right then. Where do we begin?"

Erik glared up at him. "It's that simple for you? If I tell you to do something, you will do it?"

He shrugged. "I'm not the one having the existential crisis, Erik." Then he wished he'd been gentler and laid a hand on Erik's bony shoulder. Erik promptly shrugged it away and got to his feet. Well, if his friendly gesture wasn't going to be well received, at least it got the man up anyway.

"We should have lunch first," Erik suggested, his mood suddenly changed.

Nadir blinked. "Certainly," he said with hesitation. "Though at this hour breakfast is more appropriate. Perhaps I ought to send for Darius. That wouldn't be a problem for you, would it? I mean, he saw you at my flat recently enough anyway. Well, not _saw_ you exactly but—" He flailed for the right word, but Erik seemed to be smiling behind the mask.

"Whatever it takes," he replied, already walking away. Nadir went off in the opposite direction rubbing his head in a confused fashion.

* * *

When Nadir found Erik again he was in a room full of old scores and scripts and refused to leave, even for breakfast, so Nadir had Darius bring the meal in. It was all quite peculiar, but naturally Darius questioned nothing and Nadir arranged to have more of his own things brought to the Opera as it now looked as though it would be impossible to leave. They ate in awkward silence, Nadir facing away from Erik and Erik facing the wall. When the mask was securely in place again, Erik began shuffling through a drawer of scores and mumbling to himself.

"What are we looking for, Erik?" Nadir tried carefully.

"Something appropriate," was the reply.

Ah. Yes. Infinitely helpful. "Appropriate for what?"

"For a grand reopening, of course, Daroga! What have we been discussing all this long time?"

Nadir shrugged. "Well, they never did manage to finish that run of _Faust_," he suggested.

Erik turned and fixed Nadir with a glare so intense Nadir felt certain flames would shoot from his eyes. "Absolutely _not_. Not _Faust_. _Any_thing but _Faust_"

"Okay. Well, what else do we have lying around here?" he picked up a few scores and shuffled through them. "How about _Othello_?"

Erik felt his stomach turn and he shook his head violently at the other. "No," he wretched, turning away. "_Anything_ but that."

"All right then. No _Othello_." He set it aside. "How about... Hmm... No."

"What?"

"It is merely nothing."

"_What_?" His posture was dejected and his eyes imploring through the mask. He looked so wretched that it was just impossible to deny him anything he asked.

"_Roméo et Juliette_."

"You're right. _No_. Anything but—"

But he was infuriating! "Yes, anything but anything we have here, is that correct? Erik, honestly, it is merely an opera."

There was a stunned silence for a moment, then "_Merely_ an opera?" It was as though he'd spoken blasphemously. "Do you _hear_ what you are _saying_?"

Nadir held up both hands palms out. "Forgive me. But really, you must choose something."

They stared at one another a moment, each daring the other to look away and eventually Erik did. "Well?" he said, too casually.

Nadir looked back at what lay in his hands. "_Roi de Lahore?_"

"Surely you're joking."

"All right then." He made a face and placed it aside. "_Mazepa."_

Erik gave a non-committal shrug.

"_Sigurd_."

"What we need, Daroga, is a _company_." His voice was exasperated. "A core group to whom we can later assign—the matter of the choice for performance— I will deal with that later."

"Of course,"

"Just, run an advertisement or something."

"Certainly."

"And then—"

"Yes?"

"Just—see to it that no one sings anything from those first three in my presence."

"Of course, of course," Nadir said tiredly.

Nadir was annoyed with him. Matter of fact, Erik was rather annoyed with himself as well. He still wasn't feeling entirely well after that ordeal in the torture chamber anyway, so he started for the cellars to rest.

"Erik!" Nadir called after him. He stopped and looked back. "You are rightfully here now, you understand. You hardly need to stay in the cellars."

But Erik shrugged and continued on his way.

* * *

**Shameless begging**: Something terrible happened last night. After working on this until almost one o'clock a.m., the story finally crept far enough into my mind to pervade my dreams. One would think that might be a good thing, or at least an entertaining thing, but after a conversation with someone who might have been Erik (I couldn't tell you for certain—I never saw _anyone's_ face in the _whole dream_) I woke up thinking this entire thing (yes, everything I've worked so hard on!) was entirely stupid. Can you believe that? I woke up and went "Gosh, this really isn't good at all. It's sort of campy and embarrassing." Honest to goodness, if it weren't for all of you who say you want to see how it ends and that it's very distressing to read and read a story only to have its author abandon it suddenly and without warning, I probably would have stopped right then. Can you believe that? I feel so icky right now. Don't worry... it'll probably go away (God, I hope so!) but :shudders: ugh! :shudders again: Anyway, this is NOT just a clever ploy to get more reviews. I'm honestly feeling distressed. PM me or something if you have suggestions to get me out of this weird funk.

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**The great title search**:

It's my bizarre variation on writers block. I can write and write and write, but titles are a hopeless cause lately. What on earth do I call _this_ chapter? I was brainstorming but not much came out. Here's what I have so far:  
Philosophical  
Existential  
Meaning  
Purpose  
Preordained  
Send choices or better ideas to me via PM, or if you choose to review, just stick it in there. Thanks!  
Oh yeah... and 69 and 70 are still nameless as well and if anyone can help with those, I was hoping that the muses would just come whisper them in my ear, but they chose not to, so, you know, I need help again.

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**Another plea for help:** I am looking for the translation of POTO which rappleyea mentioned in which Christine responds to Raoul with "Unhappy man! Why do you tempt destiny? Why do you ask me about things that I hide deep in my conscience the way I would hide a sin."

Can anyone give me a page number and a publisher? How about email me a link to that part of the full text? I can't find it ANYWHERE and it's DRIVING ME CRAZY! Okay, a chapter name, and I can find it in the full text myself... Just HELP before I lose my mind!

This is all I can find for myself:

I doubted your love for me, during those hours.'  
Do you doubt it still, Raoul?...Then know that each of my visits to Erik increased my horror of him; for each of those visits, instead of calming him, as I hoped, made him mad with love! And I am so frightened, so frightened!...  
You are frightened...but do you love me? If Erik were good-looking, would you love me, Christine?'

She rose in her turn, put her two trembling arms round the young man's neck and said:  
Oh, my betrothed of a day, if I did not love you, I would not give you my lips! Take them, for the first time and the last.'

**And finally, one last note of astoundedness:**

Also, I have just discovered THIS (below) in the online full text (while looking for the part rappleyea referenced). I don't recall reading this in my copy, which I have lent out, and therefore can't use to verify whether it was there and I missed it or whether it somehow got left out of my translation!

These mirrors were broken in parts. Yes, they were marked and scratched; they had been starred,' in spite of their solidity; and this proved to me that the torture-chamber in which we now were _had already served a purpose_.  
Yes, some wretch, whose feet were not bare like those of the victims of the rosy hours of Mazenderan, had certainly fallen into this mortal illusion' and, mad with rage, had kicked against those mirrors which, nevertheless, continued to reflect his agony. And the branch of the tree on which he had put an end to his own sufferings was arranged in such a way that, before dying, he had seen, for his last consolation, a thousand men writhing in his company.  
Yes, Joseph Buquet had undoubtedly been through all this!

My GOD! When Kay put that bit in about this being how Joseph Buquet died I honestly gave her credit for coming up with it all on her own and allowed it to redeem her in my mind a bit! My goodness! This exonerates Erik almost entirely, for he _didn't do it on purpose_! (It also means I need to change something from my chapter 12 now!)


	72. Chapter 72: Frustration

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**Author's Note****: **Hi! :waves: (Okay... I apologize for the lack of real true angst but as Eric Draven said in _The Crow_, It can't rain all the time!)

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Special thanks:** This time thanks go out to rappleyea for convincing me I'm not crazy. (Yeah. She lies well.)

* * *

Erik paced before the mirror, frustrated. It would be weeks, at least, waiting for more materials from which to make a new lifelike mask, and he'd damaged the original in his anger at himself the day he'd read Elizabeth's letter. He paused in his pacing to examine it closely in the mirror. It wasn't _bad_, he thought. Even with fingernail marks in it, it was far better than what nature had given him. He had not reworked the nose yet either, and it make him inordinately self-conscious. Then again, there was going to be that feeling even once it was perfect—the constant nagging fear that someone would be able to tell or that there would be some terrible accident in which it would come off. And even if he could reassure himself with regards to those, there was the simple discomfort with being looked at just out of habit. Even when he was well-hidden and knew he could not be seen, eyes looking in his direction tended to escalate his heart rate and turn his hands to ice. Still, it wasn't that bad when he looked at it objectively. From a distance, perhaps, no one would notice those strange little crescent shaped indentations. As long as he didn't have to get close to anyone.

Since Nadir had placed the ad in the Epoque looking for singers, Erik had paced the auditorium in frustration looking for a place from which to watch the auditions. Backstage he would be accessible to others waiting their turn. From box five he was visible if he merely sat, while if he used the hollow column he would not be able to see the singers to match them with the voices. He would have to remember the order in which they sang and hope Nadir had all the names right. From the rafters, from behind the wall, from beneath the floor... None of it would work properly. Elizabeth was right in the carriage that night when she asked, "How would you manage it?" It was already proving to be impossible and he hadn't had to do anything yet.

Nadir couldn't possibly notice the nuances he noticed, so there was no chance of describing them to him by their voices. He would need a vantage point from which he could see as well as hear. Better still, if he could be present, get their names, jot down some notes... That would be ideal. Not that he needed notes of any kind, but it looked good to be taking notes. Made him look serious, he thought. Official. It was not at all ghost-like to be taking notes. But he could not be seen! If he were seen with this mask, with this face, it would destroy his chances of being accepted when he created the new and improved version. Everyone would notice the sudden change in his appearance! Unless... unless he made the new one so different that he appeared to be someone _entirely_ different. He thought it over as he looked at his reflection. It was a good idea. This face didn't really suit him after all, he decided.

Even so, it might suffice in the meantime. He would show Nadir. Nadir would be able to say for certain whether it was good enough or if it were a very bad idea. Nadir would be in the manager's office. He took special delight in being there in an official capacity after having been taken there numerous times by the shade in the felt hat, who frequently arrested him and took him to the managers for lurking around backstage and below when he was observing Erik. He was reclining in the manager's chair with his feet on the desk as he had been the day Erik asked him the meaning of life. This time, however, he sat forward and removed his feet from the desk far more rapidly.

"Monsieur, you're not supposed to be—" he began, and then he let out a sudden yelp as he recognized the lanky figure without a mask. Or rather, with a—well, with the wrong face. Or—who _was that_?

"Erik?" Nadir said standing, pushing the chair in and backing to the back wall.

"Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

Then it _was_ Erik. But how? Nadir dared to step a bit closer, but timidly.

"Oh, honestly, Daroga! It's supposed to make people _less_ afraid, not more! Is it _that bad_?"

"No! No, Erik, not at all... It's just... Well, I wasn't sure it was you, actually."

"That is more the reaction I was hoping for."

"Why, it's—" He stepped closer. If it had been anyone but Erik under there, he'd have reached up and poked at the fleshy-looking mask. Instead his hands twined themselves around one another at waist level and he merely looked.

"It's been rather damaged somewhat," Erik said. "Is it noticeable?"

Nadir shrugged.

"Do not compare it to me. Compare it to everyone else. Consider it as if you never met me. Does it look entirely unnatural?"

"Well, no, not entirely..." He stepped closer. "At this distance it looks a bit shiny, I guess. But I wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't asked."

"Shiny!"

"Yes, shiny, but only a little. Perhaps you could... powder it? Like the ladies do."

"Wouldn't _that_ show?"

He shrugged again. "You'd have to try it."

Erik snorted and turned to walk away. Then he stopped seemingly remembering something, glanced at a watch, and turned back to Nadir. "What time are you expecting them?"

"I believe nine o'clock was the time I published."

"Come here."

"Why?" asked Nadir, but he was already obediently moving toward Erik. He paused confusedly in the hallway as Erik held up his hand then turned and walked away from him. About twenty paces down the hall he turned again. "From this distance?" he called.

"I wouldn't recognize you."

"Natural enough?"

"I suppose."

"Then I'll be there."

Great, Nadir groaned inwardly. Erik at auditions. He looked _so_ forward to _that_.

* * *

Crowds gathered early outside the Opera to see who else would arrive and to gossip about the tragedy and mystery surrounding the Opera. Erik growled something incoherent about the mob of people outside, but Nadir called it a good sign that people were interested. Secretly, he was glad of Erik's new mask, for he knew that Erik could not bear not to listen and watch as the new talent streamed in, and the last thing they needed was for someone to catch sight of a masked Erik—or worse still, the chance unmasked Erik—and point and scream "the Opera Ghost!" after all this time. It would be disastrous in so many ways.

After so much gossip about the deaths, the stories had become so exaggerated that there was the chance it would clear the Opera and they would have to start over again. Of course, it was also likely there would be one or two brave souls in the potential company who might dare try to get a closer look, and there was no surety what would happen then except that it would not be good for the pursuer. But most importantly, Erik was at last beginning to act like less of a ghost and more of a man, and Nadir speculated that if neither of them ever heard the word "ghost" again in their lifetimes it would be a good thing. He made a mental note to return to the store of scores and eliminate anything that might introduce a spectre.

Erik towered in the doorway and glared at Nadir. "What have you done?" he asked with more than a little irritation.

The daroga looked entirely baffled at the accusation. "Nothing," he said, his brows knitting together.

Erik gestured. "The whole of Paris is out there!" he burst out suddenly and Nadir blinked.

"The whole of Paris? Is that even possible?"

"You tell me. What did your advertisement say?"

Nadir was suddenly timid, but he pushed the paper across the desk to Erik, who picked it up, read it, tossed it down and then picked it up again. "Daroga!" he said with sudden alarm, "There is not time enough in a day to audition everyone who would respond to such an advertisement! There are not hours enough in the day—perhaps even days enough in the week!"

Nadir cringed. It was what he feared, happening already. Erik offered little direction but had something very specific in mind. He sighed. "Apologies, Erik. I will check with you next time." For once, all that practice bowing before the Shah paid off.

"Nonsense. You'll have help by the time there is a next time," Erik responded uncharacteristically. "Then again, I suppose you shall need an advertisement to find your help, no?" he chuckled. "You can show that one to me for certain. For the moment, you'd best get out there and divide them into groups. Eliminate anyone with no experience and no training—no, wait. Don't eliminate anyone. Send away anyone with little or no training or experience, but tell them we will see them another time and to watch for the next advertisement. Also we shall see singers only today. Get rid of the dancers and musicians. Schedule them for another day. Choose the day and tell them right now where and when—as a matter of fact, best do that with the inexperienced lot as well. Little chance of their remembering to check the papers. What a mess you have created," he grumbled, going back out. But Nadir smiled to himself that he was amazingly calm, especially for Erik. He worried idly for a moment what it might portend but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

One positive bit of news Erik learned early in the day was that the most arrogant and conceited Carlotta had departed for Italy shortly after the failed run of Faust. Sadly, most of the original company had followed her, not necessarily to Italy, but certainly out of Paris with the idea of self-preservation. He would need to replace the primadonna—and that bit of news pleased him infinitely—but he would also need to replace nearly everyone else. It grieved him little, for he had no real attachment to any of them, but it would just be _so much work_. Naturally, he had little else to do with no social life, he thought ruefully, so it didn't matter, but he was still daunted by the sheer magnitude of the task at hand.

* * *

Nadir caught sight of her as she entered the Opera moving confidently among those less familiar with the layout who hesitated and glanced around. With her blond tresses and graceful air, she easily attracted the attention of many, and Nadir knew it should be only a matter of moments before Erik noticed her, and then the fantastical dream they had been living that any of this were possible or real would crumble to dust leaving only the bones behind. He would send her away. It would be better that way, to send her off before Erik could see her and be utterly destroyed. She'd taken the world from him already, and regardless of what Elizabeth said about drinking tea together in the parlor, the Persian had a sudden sense of what was to come if Erik saw her. But as he moved through the throng of people, he found he could not reach her. She was suddenly nowhere to be seen and everyone else wanted to know where to go, what to do, what time would they be ready to begin, was there a more private area in which to warm up, were they to be in any particular order and on and on and on.

* * *

The Opera was filled with life once again as throngs of young aspiring singers swarmed into its halls each vehemently dreaming of the chance for greatness. Among the throng of young aspiring singers swarming the halls of the Opera that morning was one who had already had her taste of fame: one Christine Daaé.

All about her were girls younger than she, each with aspirations and fantasies of that moment when they would be called upon to sing the lead, but ultimately each having already made up her minds that she would immediately accept any offer even to be in the chorus for from there they could tell themselves that there was always a chance for more. It was, after all, not unheard of. After all, Christine Daaé was in their midst. Christine Daaé, who had gone from chorus girl to diva seemingly overnight. Christine Daaé who had had the world at her feet and then disappeared. Christine Daaé, who had almost married a wealthy noble, but instead came back to the Opera. If it could happen to her, it could happen to any of them. Each awaited her chance.

* * *

Nadir sat in front very near the stage and was relatively impressed with everything he heard, but Nadir is easily impressed and always finds something kind to say about everyone. Erik, who found some sick fascination in inhabiting box five, was rather less impressed, unfortunately. In fact, he was entirely disgusted with the ill-mannered and seemingly vocally challenged group of individuals who showed up scarcely fit for the chorus let alone for lead roles even in the least challenging of operas. Beneath him on the stage he watched those with no training pretend to be something they were not, and those with any training or experience parade about as though they were simpering peafoul. There was so much that would need to be _un_trained before any of them could be _re_trained it hurt his head to imagine the hours he would spend. At this rate, it would take _years_ and would likely not be enjoyable.

A flash of bright clothing caught his eye and he turned, focused, and laughed at a man dressed far too extravagantly for a simple audition. No doubt he expects the brilliance of his clothing to make up for the dullness of his voice, Erik thought laughingly. Well, maybe this could be at least amusing if not inspiring after all. Pity there were so many people here, else he could have something of a special bit of joy at dismissing the dandy personally.

But before he got a chance to really revel in his potential insult of the young man, he noticed another bright spot in the crowd and pressed both fists over his heart in a vain attempt to slow its rapidly escalating throbbing which began even before his mind fully made the connection and became far more intense when it did. _But it is finished_, he thought weakly. When I saw her last there was _nothing_! She is a mere _child_! Erik was not so very skilled at lying to others, for he'd had little practice interacting with them, but he was quite practiced at lying to himself, and in this way he managed to calm the wild pounding of his heart at least until he heard her sing...

* * *

The day kept him busy until very late, but the night tormented him. Though he had awakened early, retired late, and been entirely focused the whole time between, he found that he could not sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling in the Louis-Philippe room in utter frustration. He had tried the coffin first but found it unbearable. Sadly, the bed, though far more comfortable, did not provide any more rest. His thoughts tormented him while loneliness plagued him as he lay silent and still in the deepest recesses of the Opera, and in the morning he applied the adhesive for his rubbery mask over a face that was made somewhat worse by the dark pools of subcutaneous blood beneath bloodshot eyes.

The rest of the week was spent similarly both above and belowground, both during the days and the nights. Former members of the orchestra (as well as the chief conductor) were contacted via post and invited back, except those that had somehow insulted or angered Erik, who were simply treated as forgotten. Replacements for these unfortunates had to be found and Nadir spent the better part of two days with the conductor, deferring to him entirely, except when Erik whispered in his ear to do otherwise and then Nadir argued most vehemently. Erik listened from afar, smiling and contemplating why he had not considered making the Persian an ally sooner. As a matter of fact, he'd have never considered it if Elizabeth hadn't put him in this extremely awkward position, but now that it was done, he was glad of it. Yet the moment he reflected that it was she who had done it, his mood turned sour and he left Nadir to his own devices to go below and snap himself into the coffin until he could think clearly again, and even then he did not sleep. In the meantime, his absence resulted in some very wrong choices for the orchestra which would have to be righted later.

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**Shameless begging**: Could I have a review please, huh? huh? huh? Please? Please? Please? :-)


	73. Chapter 73: Don Juan

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**Author's Note: **A special treat for you! _Dessert!_ That is, a second (though short-ish) chapter because I wanted to say thank you so much to the 9 people who reviewed SO fast! (I posted this chapter early this morning and it's not even supper time yet and 9 of you have already commented. And as many of you know, I was having a bit of a hard time with working out some details and dealing with feelings of inferiority because I'm just stupid that way... and I'm better now. Amazing! As Erik gets over things, so do I. But isn't that the point of writing anyway? Gosh, it feels so good. So thanks. Here's your bonus chapter.

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

After a week of only short fitful bursts of sleep, Erik showed all the signs of fatigue on his real face, but that was the one that no one, not even Nadir, ever saw. If he was unlikely to go about unmasked in the past, he was moreso now for he saw it each morning as he pasted on his new mask, and he worried. Not that he'd ever expected his face to look good—he'd resigned himself to monstrosity during his youth—but surely the lines, the darkness beneath the eyes and the even more apparent pallor everywhere else was a sign of something very bad. He tried to blame it on Elizabeth for leaving, or for dumping this terrible Opera burden on him, but it wouldn't stick. He tried to blame Nadir, who simply wasn't helpful enough or on Christine, who could have chosen a better time, place and manner in which to tell him the truth about himself. He even tried to blame it on that terrible fop Anton who had showed up to audition dressed in such ridiculously overdone fashion that people were almost too distracted by his clothing to notice his voice.

Almost. But not quite, for nothing—not even his gaudy attire—could quite distract anyone from his voice. Naturally, the ladies were more impressed than the men as a general rule, with the singular exception of Erik, who could not overlook such a richly melodious voice if it had come from the mouth of a snake.

He hated him. He hated him with a passion beyond that he had previously thought reserved only for the likes of Raoul de Chagny. In many ways the two young men were similar. Erik regarded them both with utter disdain, looked upon both as a frivilous and spoiled little boys. Both were far younger than he but a few years Christine's senior. Both dressed fastidiously but with pomp Erik refused to appreciate.

But there was a difference, a terrible difference. Though Raoul had been a threat due to his childhood with Christine, Erik's musical ability always served to give him at least a fighting chance. Raoul's appreciation of opera had been minimal before his rediscovery of Christine. To Anton, music was as necessary as breathing and his ability was beyond compare. He sang with a strength and a beauty that all the men envied and all the women adored. It is true that Erik's ability still exceeded his, but Anton had youth on his side, and to a less discriminating ear might sound _as _pleasing. Moreover, Anton was handsome. It wasn't right, Erik thought. It wasn't fair for someone with such a face to possess such a voice.

But there was another difference between the two young men as well, and this one was peculiar. In the latter, Christine showed not the merest interest.

Erik had no way of knowing—or rather, Erik had every way of knowing but was far too busy with the day to day activities of trying to run the Opera with little help and no sleep to sneak around his system of trap doors utilizing such ways of knowing—that Christine's lack of interest in Anton, or anyone for that matter, was due to her overwhelming obsession with the Opera Ghost.

Of course she knew there was no ghost. She had never believed in ghosts before she met Erik, though she had believed in angels. Now she no longer believed in either, but she believed in Erik. The trouble was Erik, like ghosts and angels before him, was ethereal... ephemeral. He was here one moment and gone the next, and since the moment Christine walked out on him she had tortured herself with guilt. Elizabeth told her the solution was to apologize to Erik—or rather, Elizabeth told her the solution to such a situation was to apologize to whomever. Christine would not admit she had spoken so to Erik. As a matter of fact, she simply could not believe she had done it. What had so possessed her to be so unkind? And even as the answer occurred to her, she ignored it and the day that she joined the others for auditions, she had slipped away from the crowd and crept downward searching through the catacombs.

She was horrified to find that the way she thought she knew was not as she remembered it. She was more horrified still to come above and encounter the Persian, not lurking around in the cellars but seated comfortably in a seat front row, watching the auditions. She looked around. For whom was anyone auditioning? For but for the Persian, the room was largely empty.

She slipped into the seat beside the Persian and whispered confidentially "Where is Erik?"

Nadir looked as though he did not recognize her. "Erik?"

"Yes," she hissed. "Erik."

"I'm sorry," he replied, a blank unknowing expression on his face. "I cannot help you."

She stared at him. He must know. Would he _lie_? It seemed most unexpected.

"Are you going to audition, Mademoiselle..." he trailed off leaving her space to insert her name.

Oh! This was truly insulting. If it were not enough that he refused to speak of Erik, but this! This pretending he did not know who she was when he had been in the audience all those nights, when he had been outside Erik's lair all those days, when he himself had led Raoul to her that night that Erik put to her the awful question! This was inexcusable. She said as much.

"All you need to know of Erik is that you cannot reach him. He has no need to continued to live in the cellars. It is a change with the new management. Please. You must understand. My superior is very strict. I should not be idly talking with you like this. Go now. Please."

She slipped away and returned to the others, but she could not imagine the Opera without Erik in it, could not imagine that Erik really had built walls into all the passageways as Elizabeth had said and could not imagine that anyone might have managed to subdue Erik into leaving the goings-on above without his touch. She speculated that he might intervene once he knew she was here so she endeavored to find him, but she must sing first. Then she would go searching again.

It was not long later that Nadir came to her with the offer and naturally she could not refuse for two reasons. First, a part anywhere in the opera would give her the chance to find Erik and apologize. She would have agreed to supervise ballet rats if it came to that. But second, she was to be the primadonna of the new company! She swooned and smiled and curtsied and accepted. At her young age, and after all the terrible things she'd been through, at last Erik's dream for her would finally come true—and this time she'd done it without his help, she thought joyfully. She had finally arrived. Oh, if only he were here to see it! If only he could know. But where could he be? Poor Erik. _Dear_ Erik. If only she could find him there would be no distractions this time, for Raoul was gone at last on his expedition and would not be back for a very long time and by the time he will have returned she would have forgotten him!

There would be no distractions and no grief over the Opera itself this time, she reminded herself, for now her part was certain and she had no one to attempt to undermine her, upsetting Erik and causing strife for everyone involved.

She must remember never to become like Carlotta, though, she cautioned herself. She must remember always to be kind to everyone, even the least of the chorus, for one could never know. She could teach them, perhaps. Erik had taught her enough, had he not? And with joy in her heart for the first time in weeks, she had rushed to tell Mamma Valerius.

That was a week prior and Christine had been a permanent fixture in the Opera daily since. She spent every free moment trying to devise ways to get into her old dressing room or down to the lake or... _anywhere_ she might find a passageway to him.

* * *

Erik sat in the mangers office with his arms folded across his chest, scowling.

"Well, you shouldn't have done it if it was going to bother you this much," Nadir was saying for what felt like the hundredth time.

"It is not as if I had any choice," Erik told him icily. He had said this before as well. The fact remained that Christine was the best of those who had presented themselves. Correction: she was the best of the _female_ voices. Then there was that annoying boy. Sadly, Erik had to admit to himself that being able to make all the decisions was ultimately not making him happy. Worse still, he had another problem: how to choose an opera.

He was in no state to make such a choice. He had gone so long without sleep by now that he sometimes thought he heard things which were not there. He caught himself staring at a point on the wall and letting his vision darken without closing his eyes. He could stare at Nadir and watch his lips move and never hear a word. Choosing an opera—well, it was a ridiculous thought in his condition, and yet it _had_ to be done. He could not keep these people around with nothing to rehearse!

Tomorrow. He would choose _tomorrow_. Tonight he would be certain to sleep. He had almost fallen asleep standing as he leaned against the wall listening to the orchestra earlier. Surely he would get some rest at last. But alas, he was utterly exhausted until the moment he lay down, and suddenly it was like having a locomotive rip through his head complete with whistles and steam. He got up and paced the floor of the Louis-Philippe room. He wandered to the kitchen and looked around. He wondered if the daroga was right, that it was time to move above, at least within the Opera. Perhaps it was this house. Perhaps the house on the lake were haunted with an entirely new type of ghost—the emotional variety.

Well, he'd better learn to live with ghosts, he thought, because there was no way he was going to live up there and take a chance on someone seeing him unmasked now. It had always been a fear that drove him to panic, but now it could be still worse. The old black mask warned people away, let them know that something terrible must lie beneath. With this new mask it could be far worse. People would be unsuspecting and in reaction to such shock and horror there was no telling what they might do—_to him_. His pacing led him to his room—his own room, with the coffin, though he hardly ever came here anymore—and as the only viable space to sit was on the organ bench, this is where he lighted. Seated with his elbows just above the keyboard and his terrible unmasked head between two fists, he nearly slept for the first time in over a week but as his head nodded forward he suddenly leapt awake and when he opened his eyes, there it lay before him. _Don Juan Triumphant._

_No_. Not that. _Any_thing but _that_.

_Not that_ was his response to everything Nadir suggested, everything he found among the old scores, everything that entered his mind. And now to this. _Don Juan Triumphant_.

_No_. It was a whisper in his mind. _Not that_. Anything but _that_. It is too powerful. It is dangerous.

He lifted the score in his hands holding it delicately like an injured bird, placed it gently upon his lap. He turned the pages slowly, almost lovingly caressed them. _Don Juan_. The scrawled red notes seem to move before his eyes as sleep threatened to overtake him at last. He reached for the notes. _Triumphant_. This. _Yes_. _This_. A hideous grin spread across his deathlike visage as he embraced it and carried it like a child to the coffin.

_I began that work twenty years ago_, he told Christine, just months earlier. Had it been so long! _When I have finished, I shall take it away with me in that coffin and never wake up again._ Ah, yes. How romantic. Well, it had not exactly worked out the way he had planned, but nevertheless...

He took it away with him nevertheless. He entered the coffin, wrapped his arms about the score and at last drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**Shameless begging**: It really is shameless at this point. Early on I called it shameless begging, but in truth it was more like shame_ful_ begging. I hated to have to ask. Now it is my little trademark reminder thing-y and you are all my wonderful friends who might remember even if I didn't put this little note down here. But here it is anyway. Just in case. Because one can never be too sure.


	74. Chapter 74: The Score

**Author's Note: **Okay. Every two days is about the best I can do at this right now. My foster home is getting randomly inspected next week or the week after, and though they say that "tidiness" is not a factor, you can imagine that I don't want to have a bunch of state inspectors traipsing around if it's anything _less_ than tidy. Additionally, I am borrowing an unabridged copy of Phantom of the Opera from rappleyea in order to make sure I'm consistent with all of Leroux, not just portions of Leroux. I don't expect to have the book until Monday and it'll probably take me a day to get through it or two days if there are interruptions, so it's possible that I won't be able to update again until around Wednesday June 25. Of course, there's always the chance that a major brainstorm will hit and I'll just throw out a chapter. It's up in the air right now.

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

It was morning. Or perhaps it wasn't. It was many hours since he had fallen asleep, the score to _Don Juan Triumphant_ cradled in his arms, so it was morning to him at last, after days and days of night. He flipped open the lid of the coffin almost effortlessly and climbed out carefully, still with his arms around the score. He spread it on the table and started above to find Nadir. About three paces into the passageway he went back.

_Stupid, _he berated himself. _Going above without a mask. Who does Erik think he is?_ he grumbled to himself as he went back to the mirror to reapply his presentable face. And he looked at himself. And he looked at the new face. Who _does_ Erik think he is? _Who indeed?_ He held up the new mask beside his own face. Not this fellow, that is for certain, he thought. He cast the rubber mask aside. And I will be above but a moment. He hastily grabbed the old black mask and tied it on. Once past his gate with it safely re-locked behind him he rushed through a series of narrow passageways and emerged from the trapdoor in Nadir's office floor.

It was far later than he thought. It was not merely morning. It was morning _two days later_, and he'd been long missed. In fact, he'd been missed, looked for, worried about, and agonized over. He would have been discussed, if there were anyone Nadir trusted enough to tell, but there wasn't, and so he hadn't been. The Persian was in such a state of anxiety over his failure to return that he nearly embraced him when at last he emerged. But he didn't. He caught sight of the old black mask and drew back against the wall. "Erik!" he whispered. "What's wrong?"

Erik merely stared. Nadir pointed at him then made quick gesture across his own face with one hand. Erik shrugged. "It is nothing. I was in a hurry. The other one takes too long."

Nadir's voice was a harsh whisper. "You can't go out _there_ like _that_!"

Erik spoke with the patience of a saint. "It is why I came through the floor, Daroga."

The other looked ready to explode with frustration. "It's been over two days, Erik! What do you want me to _do_ with these people?"

He considered. Two days. No wonder he felt so rested. "Give them the day off," he said softly.

A noise that was something between a whine and a moan erupted from Nadir and Erik laid a bony hand on his shoulder with a hidden grin. "Tell them to rest as much as possible." He rather enjoyed the uncomfortable look on the Persian's face. "Tell them to prepare their _souls_," he said ominously, and the daroga trembled. "They're going to need it."

He turned away chuckling. "Honestly, Daroga, I do hope you'll relax a bit. I won't do anything too terrible. I have it figured out at last and it will be very good."

Nadir hesitated. Could it be true? Erik had finally broken through whatever mental or emotional block developed every time he entered that room of scores? He barely dared to speak the words. "What is it? On what did you decide?"

"Something I wrote myself," he said softly. "Something very special."

"You wrote it in _two days_?"

"Hardly. It took me twenty years. I only _slept_ for two days. And though it is finished, I will need a few more days to make the necessary corrections and to prepare a copy for you." He would not, under any circumstances, hand Nadir the original.

A frustrated shriek was the next sound that came from Nadir as he stormed out the door to send everyone away. Erik slipped back through the trap door and hurried back to the house on the lake.

* * *

Once hidden away in the house on the lake Erik tossed off the black mask and sat down at the table to work. A list of characters: Don Juan, Don Diego, Catalino, Don Pedro, Doña Ana, Isabella, Batricio… and a long list of other names with at the top Christine Daaé and Anton Kuznetsov. He ran a hand over his bare scalp. It pained him to cast Anton as Don Juan for _he_ was Don Juan and Anton… Anton was… well, in reality Anton was perfect for the quintessential Don Juan written by anyone else: de Molina, Moliere, Byron... Anton might as well _be_ Don Juan. But Erik's Don Juan was _Erik_: Erik as he wished himself to be, Erik as he might have been if he had been more fortunate. Erik as…

He pushed back from the table and let out a short puff of air through the open space where his nose should have been while raising his eyebrows. As much as he hated to admit it, Anton rather _was_ Erik as he wished to be. He was strikingly handsome, charming, quick-witted, but still entirely devoted to music. His singing was not _perfect _Erik criticized, but then, was _anything_? It was certainly _close_. And if he, Erik, were willing to—he hated to even think it—train him further—the thought made him feel rather wretched—well, the fribble might just be able to pull it off.

It might also be interesting to develop Anton's costume himself rather than let anyone else work at it, he thought with another of his hideous grins. This reminded him that he would need people to work on costumes in general—but _not Anton's_. He himself would design everything the boy would wear, and it would be most gratifying to cover that beautiful beau's face with the most hideous mask imaginable. Oh yes! It would _exquisite_.

Erik ground his teeth together. He hated that boy. _Hated_ him. Loathed him and all he was, all he stood for, _hated_—he stopped—_himself_? Hadn't he just admitted that Anton was himself as he wished to be?

He put his head in his hands again and rocked forward and back. Why was this so incredibly difficult? It should be simple considering the manner in which those supposed idiots who had been traipsing around calling themselves managers managed to pull it off. Of course, there were _two_ of them. And they had an established company. And scores of others who worked beneath them. And they didn't have to write their own operas. This was the impossible, and as much as he might claim to have frequently done the impossible, it really wasn't true. The impossible was to face the world barefaced, and he certainly hadn't done _that_. Then again, there was a fine line between impossible and just plain stupid.

Or perhaps it was because it was _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was not _meant_ to be performed. It was too dangerous, too _powerful_… but it had power even over him now, and he would not dare disobey.

He painstakingly copied everything once over into another music book to avoid giving Nadir the original, lest something happen to it. There were a few minor corrections to be made based on what he had for a cast and... no, but he couldn't change _that_. That was as he'd written it. It would remain as it was.

He worked for hours on end and when he was finished his wrist ached and his eyes burned, but it was finished once again. He tucked the original score carefully into the coffin and closed the lid. Then it was time to rest again and with the original script safely resting in the coffin and Nadir's copy laid out on the table, Erik drifted away in the Louis-Philippe room without any trouble now that he'd admitted what he'd known all along—it had to be performed, even if only once, even if it destroyed him in the process.

* * *

It was a few more days before Nadir could introduced the piece to the company and assign parts. Christine had become something of ghost herself, ghastly pale with a vacant look in her eyes as she roamed what she could reach of the labyrinth below. She had encountered the gate and easily determined its purpose. It was by this path that Erik could come and go if and when he decided to. It might be possible to wait there, but it was difficult to surmise how long it might be before he arrived, and she dreaded to think of what those long hours—days—might be like. Further, she had been warned by someone who seemed to function beneath the Persian—whose role she could not be certain— that now that she was the primadonna there could be no more of her disappearing acts that had not mattered as much when she was only a chorus girl or an understudy. She burned in anger but simple nodded her assent. She would not disappear. She _could_ not camp out by Erik's gate without losing the position that granted her access to the Opera at all.

Christine caught that boy Anton staring at her with a stunning smile on his face. Why was he looking at her like that? Then she looked at the cast list. Yes, both their names were at the top Well, what did he expect, really? It wasn't any real surprise, was it? She smiled back, a fake, flimsy smile then let it fall from her face before she turned away. She knew how deep the love of such types went—as deep as Raoul's. Deep enough to promise forever and then turn and walk away. She glanced back at the cast list. Don Juan? Anton's character was to be called Don Juan? What a peculiar coincidence. Then she looked at the title and was certain that for a moment her heart stopped.

She hurried to her dressing room to read the script in private. It was Erik's work! _Erik's!_ She was certain of it. She remembered the title from that first night she saw it at the organ in his room. She could not forget it. She'd heard only parts of it but she'd remembered that title for he'd flaunted it in her face. She'd told Raoul up beneath the rafters. He'd told her that it was finished the night they were to be wed. It was finished. _Poor Erik!_

It meant for certain that Erik was here somewhere. If only she could get to her old dressing room, perhaps she could figure out how to work the mirror from her side. If only she could find a passageway—any passageway—she could find him. If only the Persian would help her as he'd helped Raoul. She shuddered. She did not want to land in a torture chamber. Perhaps it was best if she did not look for Erik after all. Perhaps it was not really his opera. Don Juan was a very old character. Surely someone else had written about him as well over the years. But _Don Juan __Triumphant_? It was Erik's unique and somewhat acerbic title. No one else could have chosen that. Her heart pounded even as she looked at the words. She had looked at the music on the organ many times only in passing, but the one time she had heard a portion of it had burned itself into her memory and forever changed her. Even as she asked herself whether she remembered it well enough to recognize it, it pulsed in her veins, quickened her heart and brought a flush to her cheeks. If this was indeed Erik's music, she would recognize it the moment she heard the first chords.

In the meantime, it was really no matter if it was Erik's opera or not, for she had the lead. The _lead!_ And it was all hers, not only for a night, but for always! She opened the score and ran her fingers across the staff, humming the melody to herself as she read. Her name was Eva. It seemed her role was that of a woman who shunned a man who loved her and she felt a twinge of guilt that this was _Erik's_ opera and _that_ was the part she'd been given. _I went back for him,_ she said aloud to no one. Still that was only act one, and besides, the music was beautiful.

She did not suspect that far beneath her Erik was wondering what her reaction might be and across the Opera in another room much like her own Anton sat reviewing his script, considering the complexity of the music and consoling himself for the difficulty of the music with the pleasant thought that he would be playing the role in her immediate vicinity, even if she did reject him throughout cct one.

Christine reached cct three and felt her pulse quicken. She would have to stand on stage and sing these lines—to _Anton_? Then suddenly her breath left her and she panted heavily to catch it. It was neither the words nor the music that caused this reaction _but the stage directions_. She trembled at the thought. Oh God, she thought. How can I?

* * *

**Shameless begging for reviews**: This is your little reminder that I love your comments. Please don't forget me.


	75. Chapter 75: Anton

**Author's Note: **First of all, thanks to the well-wishers who PMed me to make sure I'm okay. I'm getting about again now, so yes, I guess I'm okay. I'm still feeling rather nasty, but not nearly so tired. I know I promised nothing until the 25th and I'm only a day late, so apologies are only mildly in order, but I do need to let you know that what I'm sharing with you tonight is not what I expected to be sharing. _That_ chapter has been temporarily postponed because I was literally too sick to do the research to write it, but I will be back to working at it again soon, I promise. Meantime, foster home inspections have been postponed until July 7 but I've been sick, sick, sick all this time instead of getting ready. (Reference my descriptions of Erik in chapters 29-43 for how I've been. I'm recovered up to about Chapter 40's description I'd say, so I'll probably live.) Everything I wrote while in that haze is sort of distant future and sketchy, like my thoughts were, so I can't commit to when my next post will be, but I'd like to think I'm back on board for regular writing. Basically, hang in there and try to bear with me. I especially want to say that I missed you guys and your wonderful comments. A few reviews trickled in during this time, and they are truly what got me out of bed for those brief moments each afternoon. So thanks for that. And ummm... I was delirious when I wrote this; forgive me it goes astray. Cough syrups have come a long way since what Erik got his hands on but my kind and generous doctor was sweet enough to give me the narcotic one. Awww...

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Costuming? Everything was entirely out of order, Christine thought as she looked at her instructions. They had only just received the script! Either someone had completely lost his mind, or something very peculiar indeed was going on. She had some time, though, so she might have one last try at finding Erik (and asking him what, pray tell, were the Opera managers doing with his _Don Juan Triumphant_! Not to mention since when did the Persian function in any official capacity?) before costuming, she convinced herself. _One last try_. And this time she was likely to have far more success because this time had at last managed to get the key to the hall that contained her old dressing room! She crept inside and sat down to stare into the mirror. "Are you here, Erik?" she asked softly.

_Foolish girl. As if I'd be right where you expect me to be,_ he thought. And he had been, all those times. What did it say about him? And here he was now, albeit behind a different wall, yes, but still listening, for he knew she'd be here today. After all, she never would have gotten that key if he hadn't slipped it off Nadir's keyring and left it right where she couldn't possibly miss it. The poor girl! She was lovely. Radiant. Silver-throated. But she was by far not the most observant creature in the world. Even so, here he was playing this game with her again. Hadn't he more important things to do? But no, not at the moment, for the gentlemen's costumes had already been taken care of and the ladies' were not his affair, nor were they due for another hour. With the cast either trying on costumes or off at lunch, no rehearsing was taking place, no lessons to give. Had he nothing else to do? Well, there was lunch... That's what everyone else was apparently doing.

That was what made this so interesting. Christine would miss a meal to sneak into her old dressing room merely in order to go before her mirror and ask _Are you here Erik?_ Why? Why did she seek out... a fool, she had called him! A fool to think anyone would marry him... repulsive with hands that reek of the grave... cold as a corpse... wrong... pity. Ah, yes. Her pity. She returned to lavish him with more of that perhaps? Well, he'd given her reason enough. He'd lapped it up like a thirsty dog when he'd mistaken it for love. Rather disgusted with himself yet again, he turned and left the way he had come without realizing that he had left her in her room without waiting to see what she might do. He rather assumed that when he did not answer her, she would leave the way she had come and perhaps even give up. She did not, however, return the way she had come. Instead she remained until she determined how to work the counterbalance from her side of the mirror.

The passages were not the same at all anymore. Whatever Erik had done in erecting those extra walls had utterly confused her and it was all she could do to find a way back—any way back—to the main of the Opera at all. She knew she would come out nowhere near her dressing room. She was certain she hadn't come anywhere close to the house on the lake. She wasn't even sure what level she'd been on, but she climbed upward, upward and then she sensed movement ahead of her. She froze and pressed herself against the wall. _Why are you hiding,_ she asked herself. _You've been looking for him, and when you find him at last, you hide?_ She took a deep breath and stepped from the darkness. "Erik!"

There was a yell. Something incomprehensible that was clearly intended to make her jump, and it served its purpose. She screamed involuntarily. Two arms wrapped loosely around her and darkness closed over her head as she found herself entirely enveloped in _a cape_. Of _velvet_. Absurd! Except at the bal masque, Erik did not wear _a cape_. This could _not_ be Erik. She fought to get free and was surprised how quickly the other released her. She gave it—whatever it was—a hard shove and looked up into the black sockets of a hideous head, far more hideous than Erik at his angriest. Its eye sockets were as deep as Erik's but there was no warm amber glow in them at all; they were mere black pits without a pinpoint of light. The nose, what nose there was, was twisted and malformed. The flesh, if it could be called flesh, was thick, wrinkled and mottled with blemishes and seeping sores and... and... Christine screamed and waited for her vision to darken, but fainting did not come. She retained consciousness enough to watch as creature threw both its arms upward and with gnarled hands appeared to try to tear off its own head. She took the opportunity to bolt further up the tunnel where perhaps she might emerge in some crowded area of the Opera where someone could save her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé! Wait! Come back!" She recognized that voice! "Please! I am sorry! I was only playing!" She turned.

Indeed. The monster had indeed succeeded in tearing off its head and beneath it was Anton's handsome face, no longer smiling but concerned. Sorry. Imploring her.

She strode back to him, masking her embarrassment with anger. "That is not at all funny Monsieur," she told him "for reasons you could not possibly understand. Have you any idea how terrible—no, but you couldn't possibly." She turned and strode purposefully away. He trailed at her side, just a bit behind, his long ornate cape flowing behind him and his— she turned to look at his attire and found it utterly absurd. She laughed aloud. She allowed herself to part with her indignation a moment. "What are you _wearing_?"

He swept the cape around in a grand gesture and bowed. "Act four, m'lady" he told her.

"Act four? You say you're wearing... _act four_?"

"Indeed!" _Swish_. He swung his cape around again.

Christine hadn't even read as far as act four but she had a very bad feeling. Instead of admitting it she said, "What is with the hideous—" and she pointed. Mask. _Oh._ Oh _no_.

"This? It is my _face_. Dreadfully uncomfortable, actually. I am not certain I can handle it at all. But they say I must. Ah, well. I shall manage somehow, I imagine. Turns out I am masked almost the entire opera. Can you imagine it? Masked! Why, the world will not even see me! My first lead, and the world will not see me!"

"It is a marvel," Christine replied absently, but she wasn't speaking to Anton or to anyone in particular. Her stomach felt cold and her skin had begun to crawl. She could not find Erik and yet his touch was everywhere. The Opera became more horrific by the moment and now this. She was seriously thinking of leaving. Someone had apparently found Erik's work and was going to make an absolute mockery of it. Someone had found Erik's work! It meant that someone had been below! And if someone had been below without Erik's having killed him, then—why then surely it meant that Erik must be dead. Yes, Erik was dead and that was how they had managed to get _Don Juan Triumphant_. And they had walled off the cellars so that no one would see the body, encounter the scene of the—what? Murder? Suicide? What was the last thing she'd said to him? You are as cold as the corpse you appear to be and no woman could bear to embrace you? No, it was Elizabeth pities you, Erik. Nothing more.

The guilt that had previously weighed her down became unbearable and she turned from Anton, one hand to her brow and the other against the damp stone wall for support.

"It is hideous, is what it is," Anton said in response. "But you should see act _one_. It is—well, in some ways it is not as bad, actually, but in some ways, it is worse, though I cannot explain exactly why. I shall have to show it to you. Have you read it all?"

"_Lived_ it all, apparently," she said under her breath, like a curse, but he didn't hear her. She had to get rid of him and quickly so she could further explore what had happened. If she told the Persian Erik was dead, why surely that would motivate him to remember her more than he had at auditions. Unless he was the one who had done it. No, but she couldn't believe that. He seemed such a gentle soul.

Mounting all her terrible emotions into an angry reaction she turned on Anton. "What were you doing down there, anyway," she cried aloud as they emerged into a costume storage area. How dare he intrude upon the space that was her sole reminder of Erik now that she had returned his ring? How dare he?

"Getting into character," he replied with a grin and twitched the mask in his hands.

She frowned at him. And if his character was who she suspected, the poor man had died and he made light of it. How dare he? "I do not find that amusing in the slightest, Monsieur," she said with distaste.

"Neither do I. I did not mean to suggest it was funny. Terrible, really. Tragic."

She stopped. "What?"

"Tragic, I think I said. Horrible? No, terrible. Ah, it does not matter what I said exactly. I did not mean to be base."

"What was tragic?" She could feel her skin grow cold as the blood drained away. It was true then. Erik was dead at last. Anton had heard. How had _she_ not heard? Who had kept it from her _this_ time?

"Well, I am not familiar with the tale in its entirety. I was told that most people in this city knew the legend, though. Apparently, the composer heard the legend about this place and speculated. It is rather coincidental that he'd manage to have it first performed here in this exact location, is it not? It is a wonder, really, and such an honor to play in it—"

She brought her face close to his and glared at him as hard as she could. "The likes of you have no idea what honor and wonder mean. Do not speak of him to me again!" With that she turned and ran toward where she should have been nearly thirty minutes earlier, for she had made herself quite late in getting lost and sporting with Anton, but she would not make that mistake again. Anton thought Erik merely a legend. What nerve. Stalking about the catacombs to get into character! How dare he even imagine he could possibly understand! How dare he speak of Erik! No one else dared speak of Erik. As a matter of fact, no one else seemed to know anything at all.

She turned and stormed back to the Russian coxcomb and blocked his path.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said grandly. "You have returned."

She felt her face grow hot and she hated him for the confidence with which he addressed her. She far preferred the way Erik groveled and Raoul pleaded. It was far less disarming. "Only to ask you who dared speak of any such legend in this place." Then, she added hastily, in order to both insult him and inoculate him from telling the rest of the cast, as well as to cover her anger with superstition, "Everyone who is anyone knows it is not to be talked of!"

He nodded at once. "I did not realize. I apologize. I imagine he is from abroad as well and did not know either. Or perhaps he thought it safe only to speak to me, as I would not react so."

How he spoke in riddles! Who was this elusive "he" of whom he spoke? "Who?" she cried.

"Why, the composer, Mademoiselle. I had the honor of meeting him this afternoon." The apology was over and Anton was strutting and preening again. "Genius, absolute genius the work is, actually. You see, it is loosely based on" he patronizingly dropped his voice to the softest whisper "the legend." Then he resumed his normal speech to add "but there is an influence of _Faust_ and the slightest touch of _Othello_. It is spectacular, really. You _have_ had the opportunity to look it over, haven you not?"

She hid her horror at the meaning behind his words behind still more anger. "That still doesn't give you the right to go snooping about the cellars!"

He folded his arms and gave her a smug look. "Of course it would not! I would never be so presumptuous. It is just that when he suggested it, it sounded like such a good idea. After all, I have no experience with such things. You are perhaps right, though. I shall find another place to come to grips with this character. What is it _you_ were doing down there?"

The nerve, she thought! And yet he'd caught her. She had argued herself into that corner rather dully, she thought. And there was nothing to do but pretend to be angry yet again. She lifted her chin. "I do not owe any explanation to you!" she said and turned abruptly to leave.

Though Christine had promised herself only a short time earlier never to become like Carlotta, her behavior that afternoon with Anton served to make her seem unapproachable to most everyone, which would have suited her fine, for it would have prevented them from interfering with her search for Erik. Unfortunately, it frightened off everyone _except_ Anton, who found himself more drawn to her each time she tried to send him off.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless begging**: :cough: Well? If it's not up to par, I blame my illness. If it is, you should all be impressed by how well I write even when sick and drugged. Either way works for me. Feel free to send herbal remedies, voodoo cures, hexes, prayers and general whatnot in lieu of reviews if it suits you. :cough cough:


	76. Chapter 76: Transference

**Author's Note: **Today I finally managed to get the items from the post office, which happened to contain a package from dearest rappleyea, who agreed to lend me the Lofficier and Wolf editions. Let me say that I am simply _mortified_ at how much is missing from the traditional English translation and also at how much of what is in the traditional translation is missing from these. Now I will be unable to rest until I have the actual French version in my hands and can verify whether Erik truly said simply that oaths are useless or whether he really said they are to catch gulls with. (I rather suspect it was the latter, but these more "official" versions omit that!) Incidentally, how many out there realized that Christine seriously considered committing suicide with a pair of scissors immediately after she saw Erik's face? Didn't realize that, eh? Because it's not in the versions they sell at Borders and Barnes and Noble. It happens before he begins playing from _Don Juan Triumphant_. There is so much—so much! that is missing here. As to Lofficier, I am greatly disturbed to find that there is the slightest possible chance that Erik actually gave Christine the choice between a scorpion and a frog. I am sorry. It simply does not have the same ring to it. And so, utterly horrified, I continue my quest for the real story of _Don Juan Triumphant_ as well as what lies in the original Phantom of the Opera. That having been said, I don't think my horror leaked over into yet another chapter about Christine's awkward feelings about her new role with silly foppish Anton (who is perhaps not as shallow as you may initially think) opposite her.

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Christine felt timid walking down the hallway beside Anton. The dressing areas in this hallway were for the men of the Opera, and until now she had no real reason to be here. Even now, it would look rather inappropriate, but, she'd noted, there didn't seem to be anyone about to remark upon what was appropriate and what was not. Two quiet fellows with pale skin and mousy attitudes were the closest things to what anyone might call managers, and they seemed disinterested entirely in what went on outside the keeping of the record books. The Persian still materialized here and there and seemed to be in acting in some official capacity, though Christine could never determine what.

His presence reassured her that the matter of Erik was not entirely closed, for if Erik was, as she had suspected, dead, the Persian would have no more reason to hang about the Opera, unless he simply enjoyed being there. Or had, perhaps, after all those long years there, actually acquired a real job there. Somehow, these both seemed unlikely, though it may have been purely because she wanted to desperately for Erik to be there, for Erik still to be alive.

She wouldn't do anything so stupid as throw herself at him again, though. She wasn't sure what Elizabeth had done to the man, but suddenly he had had an arrogance about him that she did not appreciate and he had looked down—yes _down!_—upon her. He hadn't even cried. He had merely stood there and watched her go as though it didn't matter to him at all. And before that, he had dismissed her, sent her off, called her a child and _looked down upon her_!

He had never done that before, not even when he was thought to be an angel and she a mere mortal. Even then, he had met her on the level or with a fond reverence for her. She didn't like the change in him one bit. So why was she looking for him? To apologize, that was all. Just apologize. Yet that was too simple. If it were just that, she could find a way to leave a note—publish a note, even. That would clear her conscience if that were all this was about. But it wasn't. What would she do with Erik if she found him? Wouldn't he still terrify her as much as ever, especially now that she didn't know him so well anymore? Maybe she was just lonely. Yes, that was it. She was so utterly alone now that she could not bear it. There was no one at all to talk to, no one to cry to, no one to share her dreams with, and no one to be happy for her. Indeed, she had had to go all the way home to Mamma Valerius to get a smile when she had learned she landed the lead. There was no one at the Opera who was her friend.

Of course, there _was_ the annoying man at her side now, but he was not really a friend. Oh, he might have liked to have been, she could tell that for certain. She tolerated him only because it gave her someone to talk to, and it didn't even occur to her how it looked that she spoke to no one at all save the other lead. Backstage and during rehearsal breaks no one spoke to her, so she pretended she didn't want to speak to them anyway, deepening the rift between them. It wasn't fun anymore. It was a chore. A _job_.

"Here it is," Anton was saying as he unlocked his door and pushed it open. Christine entered and Anton deliberately left the door open. He wasn't making any attempts to seduce her, and he wasn't trying to soil her reputation. He just wanted to share with her... "Here it is," he said again, holding up a thin rubber rendition of something skull-like and translucent.

"Oh... God," Christine managed, turning her head away.

Anton threw the mask aside and tossed a red and gold cape on top of it to hide it from her view. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not choose it. It is just what he gave me. You see what I mean then? It is... well... it is not nearly as bad, and yet at the same time, it is worse. You agree then?"

Christine kept her face turned away so Anton would not see her tears. "It is far worse for me for reasons you cannot possibly understand," she said. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, tried to appear unaffected. "But you are right. It is not quite as bad as the other one."

"My word, you are actually very upset, are you not?" Anton said, peering around to see her face. "What can I do?" He dared to touch her arm.

She shook him off. "There is nothing you could possibly do." Then she thought of it. "Or perhaps..." she considered it carefully. It was something they would have to do anyway. Might as well get on with it immediately and get it over with. "Might we go over it together?"

He followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at his bound copy of the score. "Certainly," he said gathering it up. "Do you want to go get your copy?"

She glanced toward the door.

"No, it is all right," he said gesturing. "We shall share mine." He motioned for her to sit beside him. She glanced around the room, then sat, mildly regretting her decision. Here she was besides a handsome and exotic foreigner who was both attractive and incredibly talented, she was entirely free to do as she wished without Erik's strict mandates or Raoul's piteous jealousy, without the ties of either fear or engagement, and she could think of nothing but to fly from the room, to flee to the safety of Erik's orders. Safety! Erik? That she could even put the two words beside one another in thought was a marvel in itself. To flee to the safety of Erik? It made no sense!

Anton moved closer, shifted the script so that it was in the hand farther from her and with his nearer arm reached around to touch her opposite shoulder, to tug her just a bit closer so they could read together. She cringed at his touch and suddenly it did make sense. As long as there had been Erik, there had been rules. He had promised her that her dressing room and her room in the house on the lake were to be entirely private. Save that one time she made him angry, he had never touched her without her permission. Even with her consent, he was hesitant to touch her—and there had been rules for Raoul as well. Could she have trusted Raoul as fully as she had if there had not be Erik, always watching over her shoulder? Could she have trusted Raoul at all? As long as there was Erik, jealous though he was, there was absolute safety. And now? Now there was absolute vulnerability, and she was alone in a room with a man, and even if the door was open—and it still was—there was no one outside, so what did it matter whether it were open or closed?

Anton was singing now, singing his first major portion in act one, and his voice was sweet. He looked from the page to her eyes and back to the page again and a genuine smile spread across his face. Was he really so pleased to be here? Was it singing the lead male role, or was it being beside _her_? He seemed so happy. She could not remember being in the presence of a man so joyful, and she did not know how she was supposed to feel.

Suddenly she was self-conscious and did not want to sing. She blundered through her lines making a mockery of all Erik's teaching. She turned her eyes away from Anton and listened to him continue. But he stopped.

"I thought it might go more like this," he said and sang her part in a high careful falsetto.

"I can sing it," she said, "if I do not have to think about it. I cannot ever tell anyone why, but this piece..." she borrowed Erik's word: "_burns_ in ways that I cannot bear."

He gave her a curious look but said nothing in reply. He turned several pages. "Let us try something else," he said, and he showed her act five.

This she would have liked to have first seen alone in her own dressing room, or alone in her bedroom at home, or anyplace where she could have been alone, for this was a portion from which she recognized the music. She has surely heard this played before, months earlier on that terrible night. But she would say nothing to Anton.

"Come now," he said. "I have heard all about you. I have read reviews. If you do not sing like they say you do, I shall think it is because you think I am not good enough to sing with you." He flashed another of his sweet smiles at her, but this time it looked just the slightest bit sad. "That is not what you want me to think, is it?"

He looked at the page again. "Oh! I am sorry," he said quickly and turned back again. He'd quite forgotten that Eva, Christine's character _died_ at the end of act four. "Sorry. _Really_," he said. He looked mortified.

She believed him. And she was a bit put off to play a character who would be omitted entirely from the final act. Could they really call this a lead in that case? True, it was the largest female part... It was terrible, though. Another woman, a dark haired mezzo-soprano whose character Dona Elvira was introduced in act three, was featured. And she was on stage at the last. Christine felt the slightest bit bitter, but she wouldn't complain. She had already learned from her first conversation with Nadir that it was useless to complain.

He chose another portion, and this time he couldn't have chosen better if the corpse-like composer himself had stood beside him and with bony fingers pointed to the exact passage that would rend the soul of the woman beside him. It was at the end of the first act, and already it was one of his favorite parts. He leapt to his feet. "I have not got it memorized quite yet," he said, "but let us try it anyway. I thought something like..." he paused, drew a breath, reached out and turned Christine's hands (now holding score) just a bit so he could see... and _sang_ with heart wrenching agony.

Christine trembled. _Yes_. Surely it was indeed Erik's work. There was absolutely no question. She knew that portion from act five, but if that did not ultimately prove it, _this_ did, for it was Erik's misery, Erik's pain. If she closed her eyes, she could see Erik before her.

But Anton stopped before she could. "Do you think it is entirely right?" he asked self consciously.

Before she could stop herself, she replied, "I rather think it would be better played on your knees."

He fell to his knees and grabbed her hands. "You are a genius," he exclaimed. Then he got back up. "Let us go someplace where we have more space," he suggested throwing his arms wide.

She hesitated then got to her feet. "At this hour," she suggested, "I rather suspect there is no one on stage."

This, she thought, standing on stage moments later, would make things easier. This was merely a role, and she was singing it on stage. It was not her life, and Anton was most decidedly not Erik.

That was part of the problem. She'd sung with Erik time and again in her dressing room and truth be told, the dressing rooms were more or less all alike. Sitting in Anton's room while listening to his beautifully almost perfect voice, she could almost imagine Erik was here again. Encountering him in that tunnel—and in that _mask_—brought Erik into the forefront of her mind and heart. It was time to focus on the fact that this was a mere opera and nothing more. Eva rejected Don Juan. It had nothing to do with her.

She'd never sung with Erik on stage, so this would entirely undo the feeling that she was repeating something she'd already done. She'd stop seeing Erik, stop feeling him, stop hearing him. This would undo it.

Except that it didn't. Anton had somehow taken her suggestion that he fall to his knees and elaborated in his mind so that he was now completely in character. The lovely smile had fallen from his face and he was all agony as he reached for her, clutched at her; she remained just beyond his reach from sheer fear of her own feelings rather than anything she expected Eva _should_ do.

Anton was on his knees before the lovely blonde primadonna he so admired, reaching for her, singing to her of his desire for her. He closed his eyes a moment and summoned all the darkness he had explored beneath the Opera that afternoon he'd met Christine there. He reflected on the sinister appearance of his costume, on the manner in which Eva was expected to reject him, on the legends he'd heard and the terrible tragedies that had occurred here. He opened his eyes and looked up at the lovely woman standing over him and remembered her anger with him in the tunnels for his apparent lack of respect. It was truly a heart-wrenching story. A _tragedy_. He'd almost brought himself to tears thinking on it and was sure that with practice he might. The way she had trembled in his dressing room moments earlier came to his mind and reached out a hand, slowly, shaking it just a bit.

Christine stared at him with a look that was clearly a mixture of shock and horror and he was suddenly very sorry that he'd brought her here at all, that he'd dared to try to impress her with his ambition, that he'd ever hoped to get to know her at all. He was as utterly full of regret as one such as he who has not yet tasted true pain can get, but it was close enough for Christine.

She snatched up the music book from the floor and sang her horror and her anger and her fear and her loathing. She rejected him, utterly and fully with her body, soul, and voice. She turned from him as she sang the words, though she wanted desperately turn back, grasp him by the shoulders and pull him to his feet. And turned away from him she sang to the emptiness of the Opera the emptiness of her soul. She sang of superficial beauty and the need to be reassured by that which is safe and tame and normal.

And Anton—how could he know?—he _crawled_ to her and she... she rejected him because it was _scripted_. It was the way it was _supposed_ to go.

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**Trademark Shameless begging**: As I slowly make my way back to the land of the living, I thought it would be appropriate to offer you this little something I threw together this evening. Responses are very much appreciated, though herbal remedies, voodoo cures, hexes, prayers, and spells are still also warranted.


	77. Chapter 77: Journey

**Author's Note: **This is a weak chapter and I can't blame it on being sick because the others turned out okay. This is just stilted and awkward, probably because... okay, I can't even explain why. It just was. This chapter just did not feel like being written. I fell all icky for the moment, but that's okay because getting this one out of the way frees me up to post the next one, which will likely be easier.

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

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Nearly 350 kilometers away, Elizabeth was reaching London after touring the English countryside. She had never been to London before, though the story she often related stated her family lived there. Erik had heard the truest and most detailed version of the story, but even that one was not entirely correct, for Elizabeth wasn't English. It was foolish to continue to lie after all these years, perhaps, but once a story was told, it was difficult to change it, and the first time it was told, she felt it highly critical that if anyone decided to send her back where she was from she end up someplace other than her actual country of origin and England seemed as nice a place as any to which to be sent.

It was rather odd, though, that no one had ever questioned her peculiar accent. Then again, in French or German, it didn't particularly matter what her accent was, so long as it was foreign. In England, however, she certainly couldn't pass for English. It was a good thing she had neither Wilhelm nor Erik with her to notice. As for everyone else, it didn't seem to matter.

If either Erik or Wilhelm had been there at the front desk of the hotel rather than in the cellars of the Paris Opera agonizing over the possibility of producing _Don Juan Triumphant_ or in a dark asylum in Germany pouring over case studies, there is not the slightest chance either would have recognized her. She almost didn't recognize herself and though she couldn't have imagined it possible if someone had suggested it months earlier, she was pleased by this. It was by far an improvement.

The idea that it was time for a change had come to her probably halfway across the English Channel. After a long journey first by carriage and then by train to get to the port, she'd spent a good portion of the voyage in her cabin avoiding the other passengers, but it was not long before she found herself lonely and bored. She turned a page or two of her Freud text but pushed it aside. She'd had enough of pain and discomfiture that she didn't feel like reading of it any time soon. She wandered to the deck and stood and looked out at the inky waters.

She had never been the most social person on any voyage. She'd often watch the women who talked to everyone and seemingly knew everyone's names by the end of the first evening meal, but it was not her way. Usually, she sat quietly, spoke to those who addressed her but observed everyone with a detached ambivalence and speculated about the reasons for their journeys and oftentimes later confirming whether she had guessed correctly or not when things came up in conversation. She sometimes read on a trip, and sometimes looked at the scenery. This time, nothing appealed to her and she wondered—only for a moment and then she forced the thought from her mind—if she had perhaps she should not have left France. It was a senseless thought, obviously, for she had no home or family in France, she had no occupation in France, and she had previously promised Wilhelm she would return. She would have to return to Germany eventually, even if only to resign, pack her belongings and decide what to do next. She hadn't visited her brother in years. She could return to the family home until she decided what to do next without going anywhere near the village she'd left forever. Yet despite her fond feelings for her brother, she had no desire to do so. She could continue to travel, but suddenly she couldn't think of a single place she might be interested to see.

She thought back over the events of the past few months. Touring the Opera was what started it all, but it had begun before that, even. She had of a singer who had been spirited away and then suddenly returned only to disappear again, this time apparently to be married. She'd heard people say the Opera was haunted, and she'd heard people say it was cursed. She didn't believe in any of that but it held a fascination for her, which perhaps went back to Jacob after all. People had apparently always been afraid of the dark and the imagination easily created things that might live in darkness. One major religion had speculated evil beings with horns and suddenly one with bony protrusions on ones head was marked by the devil. People were afraid of the dark because of the unknowns that might lie beyond it. Death was perhaps the greatest unknown and spawned stories of all manner of ghosts, ghouls and spirits that could not rest. It was the same unfortunate situation for Erik! It was not merely that he looked _different_; it was _what_ he resembled.

But she could not lie to herself any longer. She'd gone into that Opera for a reason, and it wasn't because she felt like parting with a great deal of money to assume a burden the government no longer wanted. No. The feeling had begun months before as a sort of dull ache combined with revulsion at practices at the asylum which were become less and less humane. Even before that it had begun with noticing the date, realizing it Jacob would have turned twenty that year. If things had been different, he might have been married. She might have been a grandmother by now. Then there had been that disturbing dream in which Jacob appeared to her, fully grown looking and looking more like a Roman satyr than himself at all and asked her one simple question: "Is this what is intended for your life, Mother?" then vanished. It was then that she looked about the asylum, began to actually listen to the words she was telling patients and asked herself, "Do you even _believe_ that?"

It had clearly been time for a vacation and that is what she told Wilhelm. He'd immediately gone to his ledger and began canceling events and rearranging appointments. She almost didn't have the heart to tell him that no, this would be a vacation _alone_. Why Paris? Well, Wilhelm himself had recommended it, though she couldn't recall why. How had she come to end up at the Hotel Royal Opera? Someone else had recommended that, though she couldn't recall whom. From there it was a string of coincidences and a sudden curiosity. But what a strange coincidence indeed to encounter Erik when a vision of Jacob had started the whole thing! She shivered. She was not a superstitious woman, she reminded herself. She was grounded in science. Was she still persuading herself she believed that?

But if there was a reason for everything, what could possibly be the reason for having suddenly encountered _him_ and then participated in the strange chain of events that led him to be suddenly gone? If it hadn't been for Nadir, Christine, and Raoul confirming his existence, she would have declared herself temporarily mad with fatigue or frustration and considered him a creation of her demented mind that simply left when she became rational again. As a matter of fact, now that she was gone and had no real tangible proof of their existence, she could reasonably convince herself she'd invented the entire thing complete with opera singer, jealous lover, and strange wise foreigner. They were almost archetypal symbols anyway. It was hard to believe they were real.

But there was the matter of the diamond in her pocket. As long as that were real, none of it could be made up and she knew at last why she had kept it and what she must do with it, though there was no rational reason for that either. Could it be that she was utterly turning from rationality? And what would happen to her mind if she did? And because it was an unpleasant thought, she shifted it aside and chose not to think about it.

Sadly, when she did that, the only other thing about which she could think suddenly surfaced. Erik. What was it about him that had her so enchanted? It couldn't be his appearance, could it? Though she thought on it fondly now, it was quite certain her first reaction had been something close to horror. Christine claimed when she heard him sing she could forget the rest for a moment, but oddly enough, Elizabeth had never even heard him sing. True, he hadn't been in any condition for performance most of the time she'd known him. It was curious, though. She hadn't ever heard Christine sing, either. One would have thought that in light of her lessons with Erik it might have come up, but it hadn't. Anyway, it wasn't his voice. She tried to replay the events in her mind from first meeting him to the night Christine had said aloud what she'd been telling herself was not happening, but each time she tried she got distracted focusing on a single detail of something he'd said or the way his eyes turned away whenever they talked of anything important. There was no reason at all, and yet there it was. With John she'd had reasons she could name. He was tall and handsome, from a good and wealthy family. He was educated, had an occupation, and was prepared to build her a home. If she tried to reason her way around it, Wilhelm was a reasonable choice. He, too, was educated and could certainly provide for her and he was absolutely decided upon her and only her for a wife. Lord knew there had been plenty of women around over the years, but Wilhelm would commit to none of them.

Erik was just Erik and there was no explaining the fact that once she met his eyes she could not turn away, once she touched him she wished never to withdraw her hand. How foolishly she'd sat in the parlor trying to sort out everyone else's emotions and all the while she had not bothered to consider her own. Perhaps she was out of her own mind after all. What made everyone so sure she wasn't? People did view her as rather eccentric, didn't they? And Wilhelm—well, considering how he fancied her, perhaps he only pretended she was well. She _wasn't_ crazy, of that was certain, but something was definitely happening to her that she could not explain. She had always been quite rational until this trip, until the descent into the recesses of the opera house. She could almost hear Christine's voice: _An opera house tends to ruin one, I suppose._ Could that be true? Of course not! Mindless superstition. It didn't matter whether it was superstition or not, though, because it was finished. But she couldn't really blame the Opera, for there was the force that drove her to the Opera in the first place, and it couldn't be so simply explained away.

It was best to simply not think about it anymore, she decided. There was, after all, no point dwelling on the past. Around her she noticed couples and she put the thoughts of them away before she had the opportunity to even consider them. The decision to remain alone had been made long ago, and it was a good one. She looked out to sea and ignored them. But there were also single men aboard, and despite her decision to ignore them, she found herself occasionally glancing at them with only the slightest of curiosity.

It was not really possible to dine alone, and as a result, she was acquainted with at least a few of the passengers. She made vague polite conversation and found herself easily bored. These people seemed content enough with their lives, but they didn't seem to be really living. Of course, neither was she, she reflected. It seemed they all muddled through each day avoiding strong emotions and considering the day a success if it was bland.

One evening she found herself standing on the deck leaning on a rail and she happened to catch the gaze of man who was looking her way and smiled at him only to have him turn away quickly. It caught her off guard. There was nothing wrong with her that should cause a man to go out of his way to avoid her. She could make reasonable excuses for Erik—he had never had anyone show affection towards him and perhaps was simply unsure what to do. But other men had looked previously, at least _occasionally_. When she'd arrived in Paris men had spoken to her, but now they did not.

She glanced down at her hand and remembered. Fifteen years too long, she told herself. To ward off those who might try to get too close, she'd once told Christine. Strange how men seemed to flock when women wished to resist them, but when a woman was lonely and looking, they all vanished.

She had twisted the ring off and felt instantly freer. Then she threw the ring with all her might into the sea. Erik showed no interest, and she was not interested in Wilhelm, but they were not the only two men on earth, and she was not too old to find someone with whom to share her life eventually. She was too weary, to sorrowful for looking, but at least she would stop intentionally warding them off.

There was no immediate effect, however, for a woman's ability to attract lies not, as both men and woman all seem to believe, in their appearance but in their attitude. The most lovely of women is homely when her spirit is broken, and even the plainest of girls is radiant when she is happiest.

She caught sight of herself in a mirror that day she had checked in to her first hotel and was not pleased with what she saw. She was dark and gaunt and matronly. At once she'd gone shopping and purchased several new dresses in bright cheerful colors. She put her hair up in a less harsh fashion and stopped wearing the bright lipstick. It didn't change much, but she felt better for it. At last she gave away all but one of the black dresses. Owning one black dress was obligatory in case a sudden need to wear one arose, but to fill one's closet with them was—well—morbid.

Meanwhile, this was London. She'd come all this way because of a letter from Wilhelm that referenced someone she might find interesting. Ah, Wilhelm. He was still catering to her obsession with finding someone who might provide a clue as to what had happened with Jacob. And wasn't that, ultimately, what caused her to dwell upon Erik? The fact that though they looked nothing alike, they were both born with deformities that caused others to shrink away in horror? Yes, that must be all. Meanwhile, she'd come all this way to see the one they called The Elephant Man, another such unfortunate, but now that she had arrived, she wasn't sure she was ready for that yet.

Somehow all the strange and curious appearances she'd encountered over the years since Jacob she'd encountered without any real revulsion. Jacob himself was peculiar enough. His face had looked as though someone had molded him perfectly of clay and then, as an afterthought, put a hand atop his head and one beneath his chin and pushed the two together. The two bony protrusions on his head served to make the people of her village call him a devil, and she would never reveal that there was also a bit of a perfunctory tail that they would have called proof positive. Erik looked more like a man long dead but re-animated. Others she had seen in her travels and her studies had been covered with hair, had strangely shaped heads or were extraordinarily small. All these she'd met and accepted with some semblance of grace she'd managed to dredge up from God-knows-where, but suddenly she was certain should couldn't handle another one. No, not now, not yet. She had seen the photograph and she was not ready to meet _him_. So instead of reporting to the hospital, she sent word to Treves that her arrival would be delayed and instead set out to tour the English countryside.

After three weeks of fresh air and walled gardens she felt she might be able to return to the land of the living, but there was one last thing she needed to do first, for that diamond that assured her that what she remembered had really happened deserved far better than to be carried in her pocket where it was never seen and could be in danger of being lost. She arranged for a London jeweler to set the stone in a ring and set out for London Hospital.

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**Trademark Shameless begging**: I'm not feeling good about this chapter at all, so I'll understand if comments are a bit critical. Suggestions for how to fix, if possible, it would be nice.


	78. Chapter 78: Interrogation

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all the kind words about last chapter. I re-read it and decided it doesn't get weak until the end when I sort of start jumping around and it doesn't flow anymore. This chapter was wonderfully fun to write and easy as hell, but the next one... Oh, the next one is KILLING me. If I don't post, assume I just died of writer's block. (Can you die of writer's block? If one can, I am in danger of it.)

I should also say that in SPITE of that, I still know EXACTLY where the story is going. Chapters 79 and 81 are just being difficult TECHNICALLY, not theoretically. Those of you who were afraid I'd abandoned Elizabeth entirely, fear not. I wouldn't do that. (Okay... I WOULD have, when I was 15 and jumped around from story to story within my plot every time I got distracted... but THIS time...) I honestly left her out for that number of chapters because I wanted you to wonder if she was gone for good or not. Because after all, that's what dear Erik thinks. And he's doing reasonably well without her, don't you think? I think she'd be proud of him. At least he's not just lying around waiting to die, eh? That being said, it doesn't mean ALL is well with him, but you'll have to wait a few more chapters to find out what's wrong because he's not ready to open up yet. Poor Erik. All together now: 1, 2, 3... Awwww...

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow (except he's not in this chapter anyway, so who cares.) Incidentally, I _do_ own Anton. Aren't you jealous? He's lots of fun to have around the house.

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There was a light tap on the door, so slight he at first doubted he'd heard it at all, and Anton turned. "Who's there?" he called in his Russian accented French.

There was no response, only another light tap, as of fingernails barely touching the outside of the door. When he opened it, there stood Christine Daaé. Her face was flushed and her hair was loose. She looked as though she had run here from a great distance, yet he hadn't heard her footsteps coming down the hall. He stepped aside to welcome her in and she pushed the door closed behind her to his great surprise. He turned to her with his eyebrows raised and a wide smile across his handsome features.

She was too out of breath to speak, but she gestured in the negative to him and his countenance fell. Then she drew him close and whispered, "You said you'd spoken to the composer. Where? When?"

He was taken aback. It was hardly what he had expected, and certainly not what he'd hoped for. "The same day we met in the cellars," he managed, confused. It was over a week ago and she was only asking for the details now. Had she encountered him as well? But from her frantic nature, it seemed something far worse than a conversation had happened.

"How?" She was frantic, gripping at the lapels of his jacket with her fists and even shaking him a little.

"I—I don't know," he stammered. "He just—came _up_ to me."

"He just came up to you? He just walked up to you and said 'I'm the composer. Why don't you go wander around in the cellars to get into character?'"

"Well, it was not exactly like that, no." He was rather offended. What was she implying? That it hadn't happened at all?

"Then _how_?" She was frantic.

"Take a breath," he said. "Calm yourself, and I shall tell you."

She forced herself to do as he asked, and he began.

"It was right after I went to pick up the costume, actually. It was all very strange. I remember thinking that this is not at all how we did things back home and that the French have very strange ways of doing things. Monsier Fournier handed me a number of items and suggested I get someone to help me to the dressing room as there was so much. Monsieur LeBlanc brought Georges to help me and I turned to go. He was standing behind me, though I had not heard him come in and he extended his hand and introduced himself."

He thought the girl would die of her anticipation. "What's his name?" she asked desperately.

He sighed. "Sadly, I do not recall. He only gave his name. He did not say who exactly he was, so I had no reason to expect he was anyone important at the time, but he asked me if I could speak with him a moment and so I gave all the costumes to Georges with instructions to take them to my room, and I obliged him."

"How did he look?" Her gaze was intense.

Anton shrugged. "Like anybody else. Not particularly remarkable. Anyway, he said—"

"His voice, Anton! Do you remember his voice?"

"I should certainly recognize it if I heard it again," he said uncertainly.

"But it was unique? It was—perhaps otherworldly?"

He regarded her through narrowed eyes beneath furrowed brows. "I would not say so, no."

"He has an enigmatic voice, no? An angelic voice?"

Anton opened his mouth and shut it again. He really hadn't been paying that much attention at the time. It hadn't seemed important until later. In fact, it hadn't actually seemed important at all until just now. "I do not know," he said uncomfortably. "Does it matter what his voice sounds like? We are to be the one's singing the piece, not he."

She shrugged hopelessly. "I guess not. I had only hoped... But tell me the rest. What did he say to you?"

"He said, 'You will be needing these, also,' and he handed me three masks which he had apparently been holding and which I had not noticed previously. He said 'They are quite hideous, are they not, these two? If you have read your script already you surely understand what they are for.' And I had, and I indicated so by nodding my head. It was rather obvious which was which, but there was a third one, which puzzled me. He said 'I see you are wondering about this one, are you not? Not to worry, I shall explain. This one if for act three. No doubt you expected to play act three with your own bare face, but we cannot have that, for the audience should not see the splendor of your face until the end.' I was rather confused at that but I figured it would all start to make sense in time, so I said nothing. He commented on it. Said something like 'Ah, not so arrogant to need to comment? That is pleasing, I daresay,' or something like that."

"That sounds like him!" Christine ejaculated.

"Sounds like whom? You know the composer?"

"No. I mean, yes. No. I don't know. I am sorry. Please continue."

"Well, I said something like 'Thank you, Monsieur,' and he... he sort of chuckled and said there was no need to thank him he should rather thank me. Then he smiled—all right, you asked what he looked like and I cannot for certain describe him in any detail, but I can tell you that he looked rather peculiar when he smiled like his teeth did not quite match his face, but that is a terrible thing to say about someone, so I shan't dwell on it! Then he smiled and said that no doubt I was wondering who he was and that it was he who composed the work we were to perform. I was so surprised I did not say anything at first, then I told him it was an honor and a pleasure and I shook his hand and—"

"What did his hands feel like?"

"_What?_"

"Are they cold? Are his hands cold? And thin? Too thin? Bony?"

He stared at her, then very slowly asked her "Mademoiselle, are you sure you are quite well?"

She drew back, sat up straight and tried to look indignant. "Of course I am! But tell me what were his hands like!"

"Why, how should I know?" he exclaimed. "He was wearing gloves. He did not remove them to shake my hand. I guess he should have..." he trailed off turning his head to the side, no longer speaking directly to her. "Now that I think of it, I guess that was a bit rude..."

Christine let out a little cry and looked distraught. "Is he here? Did he say he would remain in town? He'll be here for opening night, no doubt, but did he say he would stay the whole way through? Is he by chance here today? Can you take me to him? I wonder if we can learn where he's staying! Ah, but he should be staying right here if I am right! I need to see if— Can you help me find him?"

He shook himself suddenly as though having forgotten she was there. "I have no idea where to find him," he said softly but firmly. "When I met him it felt quite by accident, and I have not seen him since. But I imagine that if you truly want to know it would be best to ask Monsieur Kahn."

Christine threw up her hands. "Well, forget it then! He tells me nothing!" She turned to go, then turned back and curtsied. "Thank you so very much, Monsieur Kuznetsov," she said formally and then abruptly departed.

She left a very puzzled Anton desperately wishing he had paid closer attention when he'd met the strange composer, for he found Mademoiselle Daaé so intriguing and if he had known that the appearance of the composer would so interest her, he would have studied the man carefully and immediately sketched his likeness upon returning to his room.

It was several days later when he happened to catch sight of the man again, and he instantly looked about for Christine, who was nowhere in view. He excused himself from those he'd been talking to and set out to find her, but by the time he had, the mysterious composer had vanished.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews:** I am having a VERY hard time with chapter 79 (which is part of why chapter 78 is so sort) so PLEASE give me some kind of encouragement, huh? I know you've been doing so and doing so and you're probably utterly TIRED of being supportive at this point, but this is when I need it most because the little details are starting to drive me crazy and I get stuck on one little thing it leaves me stuck for hours at a time. I desperately DON'T want this to turn into one of those fics that doesn't get updated for a while, so PLEASE... something... anything. And if you think you might be able to help, PM me and I'll tell you what the problem is. (PS: Dernhelm--I'm really REALLY stuck now. I know you were helping... but now I'm all wrapped up in Mikado and I can't seem to untangle myself!)

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	79. Chapter 79: Treves

**Author's Note****: **We temporarily take our leave of Christine and Anton and their great search for Erik to pop back across the channel to see how Elizabeth is faring in her visit to see the Elephant Man. For the record, his name is Joseph Merrick, but for whatever reason dear Dr. Treves called him John in all his writing about him. It's not entirely clear whether Treves misheard the name, was calling him by a preferred nickname, was purposely using the incorrect name in writing about him, or perhaps forgot the correct name years later when he began writing, but the fact remains that there is that discrepancy. I've gone with the "it's a nickname" theory and since there really isn't much likelihood of determining what the truth is, I'm not going to address the matter specifically. But for the record, so you know it's not that I don't care or didn't look it up or whatever. The only reason I mentioned it at all is that it's been sort of an historical sticking point that _many_ people have gotten wrong. I'd also like to say that there is not as much detail as I'd like to have included here, but I can always go back and add and re-upload, so I decided to go ahead and post now rather than make you wait as I could have done (as I would always have to do if I waited until it was perfect—for nothing ever is.)

**Disclaimers****: **Obviously, I don't own Joseph Merrick, Frederick Treves or London Hospital, but from what I understand copyright doesn't exactly apply to historic figures. And I still don't own Erik, though I'm working on that.** :-)****  
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London Hospital was located on the south side of Whitechapel Road across the street from a mixed array of shops and storefronts, some of which were boarded up and appeared to have been long-closed. The distance between her hotel and the hospital was a great deal further than the distance she had traveled from Hotel Royal to the Opera, and Elizabeth watched out the window with mild curiosity the people walking down the street, the children at play, the carriages going past.

At last they reached the hospital's impressive main entrance. The carriage stopped and Elizabeth looked out at the many columns and arches that made up its facade. She paid and tipped her carriage driver, then looked up rather in awe of the massive yellow brick building, which seemed so out of place on the street. She couldn't stand and fully appreciate the structure, however, as the streets were crowded with people, among them several young men in white coats running the steps in a rather hurried fashion before she could ask any of them where she might locate Doctor Frederick Treves. At last she walked up the front steps of the hospital and stepped inside.

Inside, the commotion was greater than outside and for a moment she felt lost in the wide hallway amid the many patients awaiting care and the crisply starched nurses who moved about directing people this direction and that, calling names, and scurrying into rooms at high rates of speed. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief, however, for it was distinctly different from the asylum, which she always found dreadfully quiet except for the occasional disturbed cry or sharp order. The quiet was what bothered her the most, for it was as though everyone had been put aside, closed away and forgotten. At least the bustle of this place kept her from her having to fight feelings of despair. Instead she felt swept away in the confusion of the place.

At last she managed to finally stop a woman, who, by her attire and her demeanor was probably the head nurse of a ward, and ask her where she might find Frederick Treves. Although the woman was not immediately certain, she was able to take her to someone else, who in turn led her to another, who eventually led her to a small room and suggested she wait there for the doctor.

After watching the door of the small sterile room without result for an extended period of time, Elizabeth eventually let her mind wander, and this time it wandered from the bright white halls of the hospital to the dark corridors beneath the opera. She retraced the steps of her first visit to Erik—before he was Erik to her, and before she'd had any idea that her explorations were about to become a visit.

First there was the costume room. She remembered lingering to look at the dresses. She'd held the white one in front of her and gazed in a mirror. Had she already been thinking that she had been alone too long _before_ she met Erik? Perhaps some portion of her mind was working on that resulting in the strange dream and the attraction to that white dress. If it was true, as that had happened before meeting Erik, then this recent change in her could not be blamed on having met Erik. It was merely a coincidence. He was simply the next man she chanced to meet.

Then there was finding the house on the lake, the room with the coffin and black and red curtains. There was the coffin. The man in the coffin. There was looking in, kneeling down, hearing a sound above her, glancing up—there. That was her first reaction. Horror. Had she screamed? She couldn't recall, but it seemed she was too frightened to scream. It took a moment to catch her breath. Then the thing spoke to her. Yes. Thing. That's how she'd thought it. She thought of him as a creature, not a person deserving of her care. It was not until he said his name that he became a person to her, and even then he was the victim of a failed murder left to starve, someone deserving aid and perhaps compassion, but nothing more. She remembered it absolutely clearly. Her mind told her one thing only—get his person above to help. She tried to lift the body from the casket and found herself unable. He clung to her, weeping. "What have they done to you," she'd asked. It was simple human compassion, that's all. She remembered placing a hand on his head. That was revulsion, plain and simple. Then came fear as he became angry, violent and loud. Fear, then the logic taking over, forcing her to remain calm, think her way out of the terrible mess. Fear. Then logic. That was all. There was the dreadful conversation and marred apology, trying to leave, finding herself bound and then suddenly finding herself outside the door where she was permitted to remove the blindfold. At that moment she'd thought of only one thing—to put as much distance between herself and that house as possible. But three levels up she'd passed a mirror and found herself girlishly smiling. Why? Perhaps for the same reason people paid money to ride the _Centrifugal Railway_, at Frascati Garden and came away smiling. She'd survived something that felt dangerous. That was _all_.

Strange Letter. Cold chills. A simple lie and back down below. Same journey, same house, inside... his body lying on the floor... and there it was: that pulling sensation. That was it right there. It was a trap for her mind, not intentionally set, but set nonetheless. She'd dragged him to the bed, somehow managed to get him into it, and pulled the blankets up over him. There. Then. It happened again: that internal shuddering that left her unable to leave. _Why?_ But there it was. She had learned the secret at last. Perhaps he'd been right all along, comparing himself to Jacob warning her that he didn't need a mother. She'd felt perfectly a home caring for him... Having discovered the reason, she could certainly recognize—and thereby avoid—its happening again. Perhaps she could even put it behind her.

She jumped when the door opened and a tall broad shouldered man in a white coat entered. The darkness of the house on the lake faded and she found herself in a very white, very _bright_, sterile-looking room. The man's shoulders filled the doorway. He was a young man, not much over thirty with a thick mustache and his hair cropped close on the sides. He was looking at her, rather impatiently it seemed. She stood and greeted him, asking "Doctor Treves?" He gave her only a polite nod, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. She introduced herself briefly, reminding him of her letter.

"Ah yes, Germany," he replied. "You're coming from...?"

It was a question, but it left her confused. "From, sir? I've come from Paris, sir, but I was delayed—"

"From what hospital?" he asked more clearly.

She hesitated. "I've come... just personally. Just as myself. I am—" and she said it aloud for the first time since it had occurred to her nearly a year ago: "I am leaving my employment at the hospital in Germany."

He frowned at her, looked confused. "You are seeking a position here, then?"

"No, not at all." She paused. How awkward. "I came... about the possibility of visiting with Mister Merrick, sir."

The frown went away as this is what he evidently remembered from her letter, but reappeared suddenly as he asked "And you say you're here _personally_."

"Just in that I am not representing a doctor or a hospital. I'm not here to study him, sir. Just to meet him, perhaps."

He turned to go and gestured that she might accompany him and she wondered if the visit were to begin at once. She fell into step beside him taking two steps to each of his long strides.

"It certainly might be possible," he was saying before she realized he was speaking to her again, "but I had the notion that you were coming from an institution. I'm not saying it isn't possible anyway. He does enjoy visitors, after all, but I want to be quite clear about this." He opened another door, stepped inside, waited until she followed. It was an office of sorts. "This is a hospital, not a side show. He is a patient and a friend. I'm not running any kind of a freak business on the side and John is not for anyone's entertainment." He sounded suddenly angry and spoke with a conviction that was almost defensiveness.

"Absolutely not," she replied in a tone that she hoped conveyed that she felt the same way he did about such things and which also suggested that he had offended her with the thought.

He regarded her for a moment through narrowed eyes. "What's your interest in meeting him?" he asked.

She heaved a sigh. She hadn't thought through how to answer that one in advance, though she now realized it was something she should have expected to be asked. "Strictly personal," she said meeting his eyes. She would have to give him more than that, but she simply would not tell him the details. "It relates to a family member," she said simply. Surely he wouldn't think it unusual that she avoided the details. "Likely an entirely different affliction; I've never encountered anyone quite the same. Still, I always prefer to make the visit and be certain rather than to miss a chance. And even so, I'm certain there is something I can learn, even if only mere coping strategies or what the relationship with the family is like."

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a peculiar look. "John chooses not to talk about his family," he said tersely

"Entirely understandable," she agreed. "I don't speak about mine either." Dr. Treves looked mildly curious. She sighed. "It will be a simple social call; that is all."

He frowned again. "There's a procedure to go through," he told her, "and I haven't the time for it today, so if you'll make an appointment and return—" He stopped without finishing the statement. It was a command.

"Absolutely," she said without hesitation.

"I imagine it could be accommodated any day week as long as..." he said, then hesitated and glanced at the calendar on the desk. "Any day next week should be fine but one never knows for certain what is to come up..." He hesitated again looking with concern at the calendar and then his watch. At last he said with sudden resolve "Unless you'd prefer to come for tea on Sunday?"

She hesitated. Had good Doctor Treves just invited her to tea? Before she could stammer a response he added, "_John _and I will be having tea. You might like to join us."

She nodded quickly. "I'd be delighted."

"Be certain to arrive early. Two o'clock perhaps, as I can never be quite certain of my schedule. You and I will need to meet, see that you are sufficiently prepared, then—"

"Oh," she interjected, "I do have the photograph you sent a friend of mine. A doctor."

"No matter," he said looked distractedly at the clock. "Absolutely necessary to be certain. I won't have any fainting or screaming in there, so if there's the slightest chance—"

"There isn't," she said "but I'll do everything just as you say anyway." After all, she really hadn't a choice, had she?

"Well, in that case I'll be sure to let him know you're coming." The conversation was suddenly over as the young doctor rushed off leaving Elizabeth standing rather dismayed outside the door to his office. It took her some time to find her way back to the main corridor and then out the front entrance. As she made her way slowly back the way she had come, she pondered what little Treves had actually said. She absolutely appreciated his attitude toward both exhibitionism and screaming or fainting ladies. She wondered idly if Wilhelm had a made a mistake in his letter in which he referred to the man as Joseph, not John. She glanced back at the building and wondered where exactly the man lived. It was several days until Sunday, so she had quite some time to wonder and anticipate. As she walked down the massive stone steps outside with the intention of hailing a taxi, she was so distracted by her reflections on the her meeting with the doctor that she rather walked rather awkwardly into a gentleman traveling in the opposite direction.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews:** This is here only because I always put it here. This chapter was pretty straightforward, I think. No tricks, no cliffhangers... just me getting through the part I had to get to before the next part. I know that if I say "This chapter isn't very good..." you guys will all tell me "Oh, it was fine, don't be so hard on yourself..." but the fact remains that when I put something up that I'm not 100 certain is my best work, I have to admit it. This one needs some revising, but here it was anyway. Thanks!!


	80. Chapter 80: Masks

**Author's Notes(s)****: **Now that you're wondering whether the man that Elizabeth just bumped into is a real character or just a walk-on and what her meeting with Joseph Merrick will be like, let's cut back to Paris and see what's new with Erik.

Also, there are only 4 reviews for last chapter but I'm posting this one anyway because by now I think we have a good enough relationship that I don't have to manipulate you for reviews, right? I mean, I don't have to hold a chapter and not post until I get a certain number because a rather large-ish number of you are willing to review a chapter even if there's another one after it, so it's really not an issue, right? Okay, I'll put it up and we'll see how it goes.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Quick Response for Samantha and anyone else this bothered:** I know exactly what you mean about Elizabeth and "Erik" vs. "just any guy" and that's exactly why she just asked herself that in the last chapter: Isn't he just the next guy who came along? If she didn't ask that, we'd never be sure. This way, the answer can be "yes" or "no" but at least she's aware of the issue. Hang in there. The answer WILL BE REVEALED, I promise. Oh yeah... and I read it. It's not supposed to be that historically accurate, but I agree... it was at least respectful. And also, I promise that the romantic in you won't be disappointed ultimately. I'm sure of that. After all, there's one in me too... I just keep her buried really, really deep so I don't do any dumb stuff in daily life. :laughs:

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"Of course I am aware of it," Erik told Nadir in the manager's office. "But there is nothing I can do."

"There is everything you can do, Erik," Nadir said. This time, it was he who paced.

"There isn't," Erik told him.

"It is a very simple change to make during rehearsals! Admit it, Erik, just admit it! You're doing this to the boy out of—" he shrugged. "I don't know. Resentment, jealousy, sheer cruelty, whatever."

Erik's rubbery expression looked genuinely hurt. "Cruelty!" he exclaimed. "You still think this of me! Daroga, how can you not see?" He held out his gloved hands, palms up in a gesture of pleading. "How can you say such things right to me? It is true then! Everyone believes I am simply without feeling!"

He turned away and Nadir paused in his pacing. "What do you expect, Erik? You're torturing him!"

Erik's eyes were wide and the eyebrows of the realistic mask shot upward as he turned back to the Persian. "You consider it torture, Daroga? Torture?" He put his hands to the sides of his head in frustration. As their eyes met, they both suddenly remembered almost at the same instant that with all that had happened in the time since Nadir had dragged Erik from the torture chamber, they had both completely neglected to dismantle the contraption. Each shuddered with his own memories of both their joint experiences with it and they both firmly resolved to take action against it that evening. In the meantime, Nadir revised his position slightly.

"Maybe not torture, Erik, but it's not kind and it's entirely unnecessary. Do you have a reason? In the beginning it was fun and games, and during performances it's obviously a requirement. But in between, don't you really feel it's just to torment him?"

"I have the deepest sympathy for what he is going through. Honestly, I do. Perhaps you recall that I know exactly what it feels like. I would not wish it on anyone."

"Except him."

"Not even him! How do you not see that he is not wearing it for _himself_? He is wearing it for _her_. She cannot do this without, Daroga. It would not work."

He turned his face away again and as the Persian looked carefully at his profile he noticed his eyes were troubled and moist and his chin trembled in the slightest. Nadir changed the subject and went for coffee for them both, and the matter of Anton's mask was forever dropped.

* * *

It was true, though, Erik reflected as he descended to the house on the lake that evening. The rubber masks were horrid beyond his worst speculations. He had tried a variety of substances as adhesives but found none that was ideal. Those that actually kept the mask tightly affixed were difficult to remove. Indeed, he thought, he himself was having quite a bit of trouble peeling his mask from his own hideous face at the moment.

It also had the unfortunate tendency to mar the real skin below, more so Anton's supple skin than his own nasty yellowish covering, though its effect on that served to make it slightly more hideous than it had already been. Fixatives that did not cause these problems were more likely to come unstuck, which, while not a problem for Anton during practice would surely be cause for concern during a performance. And for Erik, well, the possibility of a mask coming loose—even just a corner or an edge—was absolutely mortifying.

Still worse than this problem was the fact that the masks were desperately hot, especially in the heat of the summertime and with physical exertion. Anton had to be miserable on stage all day, sweat beading up beneath the mask and he unable to wipe it away. Erik was rethinking his original idea regarding a mask that made him look like anybody else so that people would not even turn around in the streets. It was true that he probably _could_ walk down the street, but that was about all. Actual true normal life with all its social affairs would still not be possible, for on hot summer days when ladies might be fanning themselves and men mopping their brows, Erik's face would retain that smooth perfect look that was not so realistic after all, while beneath it he sweltered in the heat, sweat coursing down between his face and its covering making him writhe with discomfort. Funny. At the time he'd first conceived of the realistic mask being able to walk down the street unnoticed had been the ultimate goal. Now it angered him that it was what he would have to settle for.

No, he thought ruefully as he paced the hallway between the parlor and the bedrooms. He wasn't doing this to Anton out of spite because Anton was good-looking; he was long since over that. In fact, at this point, he wasn't sure why he was doing anything at all. The Opera must reopen only because he'd allowed himself to be persuaded by the memories of yet another woman who left him that it was what he was meant to do and now that he had begun he could not simply stop. _Don Juan Triumphant_ must be performed only because he'd allowed the work itself to convince him that it was what he was meant to do and to make a change now would be disastrous as regarded the reopening. It was true he'd had a bit of fun at Anton's expense in order to toy with Christine's mind, but after the first time or two, the novelty had worn off and he'd become dispassionate about everything.

It was rather like the days at the Opera before Christine, he thought, hesitating in the doorway of the Louis-Philippe room. He lived there, interfered when he felt it necessary, played a rather harmless prank when he thought he would die of ennui, became threatening when he felt threatened and otherwise questioned his own existence. He was still lonely, yes. Isolated, undoubtedly, for occasional conversations with the Persian, though they might keep him from utter insanity, were not sufficient to reverse the years of seclusion. Moreover, nothing could ease his confusion over the way he'd felt when Elizabeth was around and how different were those feelings from what he'd felt with Christine.

Ah, Christine! It was interesting to watch her sometimes and the change in her was indescribable. Looking upon her now, one would never suspect she was the innocent girl who sat in her dressing room asking him if he was the angel of music! In a few months time he had watched her go from a young woman who was emotionally no more than a child to the woman who embraced him and kissed him and entirely set him free that night in the house on the lake. She had grown a great deal, but the transformation had not yet been complete, for though she was suddenly no longer the innocent naive child who absolute believed everything he said, she hadn't fully grasped how she had changed _him_ that night. She still had feared him, still had mistrusted him, and ultimately had turned herself into a child once again with indecision and fear when they encountered one another again.

But at least she had managed to say the truth aloud at last. Perhaps if she had told him her true feelings the first time she had ever seen him, things would have been different. But no! He'd have kept her there forever as he threatened. Ah, but he'd have changed his mind! It was a thought in a moment of desperation. He'd have released her. He couldn't have kept her against her will. No, he wouldn't have, just as he hadn't in the end. He'd let her go—sent her away, even—each and every time, down to that last time when she'd actually _wanted_ to stay. And as much as she'd hurt him that day, it was hard not to feel proud of her for the way she stood up and faced him without fear, the way she made her thoughts known, the way she walked out when she meant to and didn't hesitate in the least.

He'd watched her here since she'd returned. She exuded a certain confidence that the others did not. She was no longer Little Daaé, the meek and quiet one, with sad eyes and a shy smile. He watched her now—not right at this moment, no, for it was night now and he was _still_ lingering in the hallway between the coffin and the bed trying to decide which suited his mood this evening—but recently he watched her move about the Opera. She was a little distracted, yes, but otherwise dedicated.

He had seen her more than once scolding that boy—Anton, yes, Anton. And he was quite a piece of work, too. A little frivolous and a little spoiled yes, but one couldn't be held responsible for one's upbringing, could one? It remained to be seen what he would do now that he was on his own and abroad. He had a voice and a face. All that remained to be seen was whether there was a heart and a spine under all that fluff, and Erik had rather come to suspect that there might be. He still hated him, yes; that was his official position. But underneath it all he was silently and secretly rooting for the boy and hoping he was not merely as he appeared.

But his thoughts had digressed yet again. He was becoming so distracted as of late! Ah yes, it had been a joy to watch her scold dear Anton, though he suspected that secretly she fancied him as she had Raoul, perhaps even loved him as she had Raoul. It was a good thing, after all, for she would need someone now that the de Chagny marriage was not to happen, for as much as a part of him mused that it at last gave him the chance for which he had so long waited, he also reflected that he would not have known what to do with her if he'd managed to at last win her. His dream of her had gone only as far as the wedding and the kiss, which he had already received. His other dreams, the ones he did not admit even to himself, were utterly forbidden and could not be thought in any manner relating to her. Thus satisfied that she was not to be his, he'd watched her with utter fascination as she advanced upon Anton with the finger of one hand in his face and her other hand on her hip. _She never would have dared to speak to me that way_, he chuckled, and yet... she had, actually. And so had _she_. The difference was in what happened next. One had gone out the door. The other had stayed... and made tea.

There was a sinking feeling within him. Something he had done wrong. The walls he shouldn't have built. And now it was too late. But no! Such thoughts must not be thought, not about her either. Such things... utterly forbidden to him! He vacated the bed in the Louis-Philippe room to return to the coffin. This new face was doing more than causing a sticky sweaty mess. It was allowing him to forget his place. He paused before the mirror before going to the coffin. _Never forget this_, he told himself as he gazed as his terrible reflection. _Never._

* * *

Christine watched Anton tugging at the edge of that terrible mask. It was the act one mask, the one that made him look rather a lot like Erik. He'd lost a good deal of weight, it seemed, and was looking more and more like the real thing each day. In spite of herself she worried, and when they had an opportunity for a break at last, she sat down on the stage beside him and commented kindly, "You know, it's not actually necessary to wear the mask to rehearsal."

He turned to her, and his eyes, buried deep in the sockets of the mask, burned at her. "I would not wear it," he said icily "if it were not necessary."

She drew back instinctively. "I know you're trying to get into character," she said "and please believe me when I tell you that you have somehow managed it. I know you don't think I know, but _I do_, and _you are_. Trust me. You don't need to try so hard."

"Who says it has anything to do with the character? Who says I'm trying?" he said turning away and she felt helplessly like she'd been here before. She dared to move closer, but slowly.

"Well, you must be. I mean, taking those suggestions to explore the cellars, wearing the mask so often..."

He whirled on her and was suddenly on his feet. "Do you think I have a choice? Do you think those were mere suggestions? You think I was merely invited? Offered? This is the role. This is my lot in life until it is finished. And you're a fool if you think your sympathy makes it easier to bear it."

She cowered away. "Anton!" she cried. "You're hardly the same person anymore!" As annoying as she had initially found Anton earlier, she suddenly wished he would be more out of character, more _himself_. And then, as the meaning of his words sunk in, "What has he done to you?" She turned and let her eyes scan the whole of the auditorium of the Opera as though she expected them to light upon Erik there out in the open. It would not have surprised her in the least, actually, as she was always seeing someone somewhere who might have been, could have been Erik. A thin man in a black suit trotting down the stairs at a clip and when she called out he did not turn his face to her. A dark figure walking by the side of the stage near the dancer's lounge. And once, someone tall and thin sitting in the first row of _box five_. "You mustn't let him do this to you," she whispered to Anton. Then she cried out. "Erik! I know I was wrong about you. You are not unnecessarily cruel. Stop this madness now. I'll do anything you wish."

"Stop it, Christine," Anton said in a softer voice. "Certainly I am exaggerating. I have gotten carried away, perhaps. No one is making me do anything." He turned away wondering idly if she were just slightly touched. She'd called out to "Erik" the way another might call upon the Almighty. _Who was Erik_?

She nodded and gave a forced laugh at her own foolishness and as he got to his feet and walked away she forced herself to believe that there was not a hint of dejection in his gait, that he did not really appear utterly hopeless.

Poor Anton! He could bear the idea that the world would not see him in his first major role. He could endure the way the mask marred his vision, and he could even bear the sticky sweatiness of the mask as it clung to his face in the summer heat. He was however, rather getting tired of the adhesive substance he'd been provided to cause it to remain attached, for it was terribly painful to pull it back off, and, as there were three different versions of his face, he was constantly having it pulled off, replaced and then pulled off again. This was something that should not have to be done until right before the performance to make sure it worked. Of course, they couldn't have waited that long, for if there had been a problem, what could they have done to rectify it right before opening night? But now that it had been determined that all the masks fit and remained attached and that it was possible to get one off and the next one on, was it really necessary that he wear it all the time? It was interfering with his acting _and_ his personality now. His treatment of Christine had nothing to do with the character at all. In fact, from his reading, the character seemed quite tender. Trouble was, it was awfully hard to be gentle when so utterly uncomfortable.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews: **Reviews? (I'm not as self-conscious about this chapter, in fact I like it a lot. Do you feel the same way? Review to let me know!)**  
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	81. Chapter 81: Merrick

**Author's Greeting****: **Oh, the joy of finally overcoming one's writer's block! Here's a chapter for you as a result of that. Meanwhile, my agency inspected my home today and had only a few minor things they suggested before the state investigation, and the state investigator called to say she can't come until July 21 at the earliest, so I have some time to write again. Of course, I have a huge amount of paperwork due July 9, so that may interfere, but surely I can work both things in. Today is July 3 which means tomorrow is Independence Day. I'd love to write something wonderfully patriotic, but as no one in my story has ever been to America, it would be somewhat difficult. (Actually that does give me an idea, though it would be all fluff and, as I have not begun it yet, I suppose it shall have to wait until next year.)

**An Author's (important) note****:** Ah—and something important has suddenly come to my attention, and I need to discuss it with those of you who read regularly because it affects you directly. Let me preface this by saying that some time ago, shortly after I first came to FFN, I began to explore the forums. Sadly, one of the first things I discovered was a "pet peeves" forum, yes, under POTO. So I started reading. Among the things that annoy people most were MarySues (yes, we've heard that before) all original characters and stories that go on and on and on without end. I also found dear Elizabeth's name under a top ten list of names for MarySues, which worried me. (Who develops these lists?) Anyway, at the time, I felt very bad about it because, of course, I was working on something with an original character in it. Eventually, though, because so many of you were so kind about her, I got over that, at least enough to be able to continue. But suddenly I realize that this story is going on and on and on for far too long. It's over two hundred thousand words and we are not there yet. I know you guys think I'm almost there. You're thinking that after opening night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ everything will wrap up neatly. Erik will end up paired up with someone—either a newly grown up Christine or a newly returned Elizabeth, and the remaining characters will either accept this or pair up with each other or go back to whomever they had before. Sure. That's possible. But is it that simple? I mean, really? There are things that are supposed to happen _next_ in this story.

Right after I posted chapter 80 I turned to my husband and told him "I am in a terrible situation because I keep telling you that everything will be back to normal when I finish the story. I don't know how to say this, but I'm not sure I will ever finish the story." This quickly degraded into a silly conversation in which he advised me to get a job writing for a soap opera and I said that it would actually be a rather fun job I think. But it worried me. I don't want this to turn into soap opera-quality garbage... But at the same time, I don't want to hurry up and end it before I feel like it's over. I started this thing entirely for myself, but now that all of you are along for the ride I feel a sense of responsibility toward you to make it something that entertains and pleases you. Does anyone have a problem if it continues for quite some time longer?

Now I am going to take my leave of you, for I have broken another cardinal rule. Another complaint in the pet peeves forum was "author's notes that are longer than your story." For the record, though, this author's note is only 663 words long, and the chapter that follows is 2472.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Dedication****:** At the risk of adding yet another note here, I feel I need to dedicate this chapter to Dernhelm who encouraged me to actually go through with the idea of having Merrick in the story when I repeatedly doubted myself and considered referring to him only in flashback later. I hope this meets up to your expectations, and if it doesn't feel free to offer specific suggestions for changes.

* * *

Elizabeth concentrated on the sound of her heels hitting the hospital floor as she walked down the hall beside the harried but kind young doctor she'd met a few days earlier. Her heart pounded in her own ears with a feeling that she couldn't quite place but which was something like fearful anticipation. What had she to be afraid of, though? This was what she had planned. She was going only to meet someone for tea. It was no matter that others called had called him an animal or that his appearance was so bizarre. She had truly prided herself on her ability not to judge people by appearances, and yet here she was, clomping down the hall with a placid smile on her face and utter dread in her heart as she went to tea with the Elephant Man.

It was Treves, actually. He'd rather overdone her preparation, she thought. She'd felt herself entirely prepared when she arrived at the hospital to meet with Treves last week. She's spent quite a bit of time preparing herself, and it had begun when she looked at the picture Wilhelm had sent. Well, no. Actually it had begun years earlier when she made up her mind that Jacob looked entirely normal, _to her_, anyway, but she didn't have to focus and practice constantly. The years of staring past outer appearances had almost paid off in the fifth cellar of the Opera, but not quite, for Erik had seen right through her, at least at first. It had made him angry. Perhaps he thought she was mocking him. But those were entirely different circumstances. Today she was here as a guest—an expected guest. There would be no terrible surprises on either side, and she'd been certain she was already prepared. In fact, it was why she had taken time to explore the countryside first, for when she'd arrived in England she didn't feel ready to face the man from those photographs. She wasn't certain she could do so without breaking down. She had waited until she felt absolutely certain she was strong enough to handle it before she dared to approach the hospital. But Treves, in going out of his way to ensure that there was nothing at all left to surprise Elizabeth with the aspiration of preparing her, had perhaps done the opposite.

First there was a set of pictures and a detailed description. Then there was the discussion about the odor which Treves said would be nearly unnoticeable since hospital facilities allowed for regular bathing and Merrick frequently bathed twice daily, and always before tea, but which he felt it was always better to warn an individual than take a chance. Treves delivered what seemed to Elizabeth to be a well rehearsed speech about what she should and should not do, what might or might not happen, what Merrick would and would not talk about.

Elizabeth was just beginning to feel that Frederick Treves was making too much of the visit, turning it into a show of sorts almost when it occurred to her to wonder what she would tell someone meeting Erik for the first time. It was an interesting idea, for fully prepared, a person should be able to meet his eyes rather than shrink away in fear. Truly, had someone prepared her—and had he not chosen to grab hold of her and drag her across the room—her first impression of him might be been far better. Maybe Treves methods were not so peculiar after all. She'd gone through quite a bit of preparation before the first tea with Christine, and they had known each other previously. Even so, it had still come rather close to turning into a disaster. Perhaps more preparation was better.

Even so, in her own case, it had only served to make her more nervous. It had not occurred to her that she might scream or faint upon meeting Merrick, but by warning her that it would not be tolerated, Treves had put the idea in her head so that now she worried unnecessarily. It hadn't even occurred to her that there might have been an odor associated with his apparent skin condition, but now that she knew there was, she worried what she might do if she found it overpowering, how she would politely excuse herself from the situation if everything became too much. Most strangely, she hadn't bothered to consider what the man's emotional state might be despite of all experience both in the asylum and with Erik. She hadn't bothered to consider what she would do if he suddenly began to cry. He probably wouldn't. Treves was rather clear on that point. But it had happened once—the first time a woman had entered the room and shaken him by the hand—so it was best to be prepared, just in case. And again, it probably wouldn't. After all, he'd had several guests since that time, some of them noble or famous or both, and he was quite a pleasant host. Once you got past his appearance. And they were back to his appearance, and being prepared for it.

"Oh yes," Treves suddenly added, as though having just remembered it. "You may have some trouble understanding his speech as well." Elizabeth barely suppressed a groan. Throughout the entire preparatory meeting, she continually reassured herself that all would be well once she managed to get a conversation started, for if conversation were good, rank and education and class, and yes, even appearance, seemed to fall away. But if she could not understand a word he said...

Elizabeth felt entirely daunted and almost informed Treves that if he was attempting to talk her out of her visit he had at last been successful. Just as she was searching for the words to say so, however, he'd risen, glanced at his watch and announced, "Time for tea, I believe. Don't you agree?" and exited the room. It was just a few moments before four o'clock exactly, and he left at a quick clip with which she could barely keep up. She'd followed him helplessly, maintaining a mildly disinterested facial expression while panicking on in the inside.

It was a long walk, all the way to the back of London Hospital to a bright little courtyard between two tall buildings. Perhaps Treves sensed Elizabeth's tension, or perhaps he simply talked to fill the quiet space during the lengthy walk, but she found herself only half listening to his commentary on various wings, on the fact that the employees of the hospital referred to this area as Bedstead Square, that the tower to her left was the East Wing and that folks were calling the other tower, the newest portion of the building, "Grocers' Wing" because of some money they had received by way of donation from the Grocers' Company. At length they reached the curiously named courtyard and turned to the left to descend a small flight of concrete steps to a wooden door with a dirty overhead fanlight and peeling paint. It was here that a sudden hot feeling washed over Elizabeth causing her to grip the handrail of the narrow staircase and seriously reconsider her visit. My God, she thought. The man lives in the basement! Why, so did Erik, and what of that? But that—that was due to desperate circumstances and a need to remain hidden. This was a hospital. This was supposed to represent the utmost in care, an ideal to which the rest of the world should aspire. Elizabeth wasn't naive. She knew from experience that hospitals were certainly not perfect and that some were far worse than others. She had rather begun to think this place, with its harried but gentle doctor and its sunlit courtyard was better than most, but this sudden descent towards what was without question a basement changed her mind instantly.

She took a step back upward. "Doctor Treves," she said, but her voice scarcely sounded and he did not hear her. She would get his attention and withdraw her request immediately before he opened the door. Joseph Merrick need never know she was here. Then her heart sank. _I'll be sure to let him know you're coming,_ Treves had said. No doubt he had been prepared for her as much as she had been prepared for him. Though, what could Treves have said about her? She's a foolish lady. Please don't take it personally if faints or screams?

Well, perhaps he hadn't actually said she was definitely coming. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Doctor Treves?"

He turned and smiled at her. "I think that Frederick is fine for tea. You won't mind if I introduce you by your first name?" She hesitated. She didn't care what the man called her, but—well, it was too late. Treves's hand was already turning on the knob. She nodded her assent. Whatever. It was merely tea. She could endure tea in hell if need be, so she would get through tea with the Elephant Man if she must. How had she gotten herself into this she wondered. Oh yes. Her obsession. She wondered idly if it had been wrong of Wilhelm to ever let her out. And then it was too late to wonder anything more, for she was being led into a small room that seemed to be rather an entire home all compressed into one small space. There were a table and chairs, already set for tea, a fireplace with a mantle over it and a comfortable-looking chair facing it. In a far corner lay a bed and a small nightstand. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was not altogether dark like Erik's cellar as she had initially feared, for there was a window that looked out upon an alley, and sunlight streamed in through the glass windows of the doors through which they had come, and through the fanlight above. The mantle was covered with framed photographs. Elizabeth's eyes moved across the room again, slowly. It wasn't so bad as she had thought upon reaching the door, she realized. It was... comfortable, actually.

It was another moment before she realized that the large shape in one of the chairs was the man whom she had traveled all this way to see. She closed her eyes only for an instant and drew a deep breath. _I __won't have any fainting or screaming in there_ Treves had told her. Of course he wouldn't, but she was about to find out why he'd worried that there might be, and she prepared herself for the worst as Joseph Merrick stood to greet her.

He was short of stature. That was the first thing she noticed, though it seemed terribly strange in the presence of such a peculiar specimen of humanity that the thing on which she focused was his height. She was taller than he, which surprised her given his massive appearance in his photographs. It was his head was massive and it was terribly deformed, though moreso on the right side while the left was only somewhat distorted and gave her some semblance of what his face might have looked like if this, whatever it was, hadn't happened to him. Looking from his right, however, one could hardly tell he was a man by looking at the lumpy growths and loose flaps of skin. His lips were swollen and twisted in such a way that they seemed never to close entirely and as there was what seemed to be an growth of some additional tissue which protruded from his mouth, she had an immediate understanding of Treves comment that she might not understand his speech. As it was, she marveled that he could speak at all. But she had promised Treves no harsh reactions, and she prided herself on her ability to hide her emotions when necessary, so she put her politest smile and stepped forward to shake his hand as she and Treves had agreed.

It was his hand that took her aback, but she hid her reaction carefully until hours later when she returned to her hotel. Grasping his hand fully was impossible, for it was several times larger than hers, swollen and lumpy with huge thick immobile stubs for fingers. The arm itself was enormous and grotesquely deformed. She ignored it as she listened to Treves going through the introductions and allowed herself to be invited to sit at the table for tea.

She was internally flustered again when she noticed the teapot and considered that as the sole lady, perhaps she should do the pouring. After all, her host's right arm was clearly not functional, and yet it was this that stopped her. Reaching for the teapot would be entirely presumptuous. What did the men do when she was not present? Perhaps Treves poured. She wondered only a moment, however, for her host deftly poured everyone's tea left-handed with a delicacy one might expect at high tea in the queen's court, and Elizabeth noticed that there was nothing at all unusual about his left hand or his left arm. She let her eyes linger but a moment and tried to meet his eyes, finding that the right one was almost indiscernible. She focused directly on his left eye, smiled at him and thanked him for the tea wondering what else she could possibly think of to say.

She was fortunate, however, for in the time since he had come to London Hospital Joseph had gone from being shy to the point of reclusive to outgoing and almost gregarious. Having been deprived of civil conversation most of his life, he now craved it and often filled his time with Treves with the ramblings of his mind such that Treves hardly got a word in. Had Elizabeth visited perhaps six months earlier—during which time she was just first encountering Erik—she would have encountered a frightened timid man, if she'd been allowed to meet him at all, which was unlikely. As it was, she found him a quite willing conversationalist, and, though it took her some time and very careful listening to understand him, she had no trouble at all recognizing that the first thing out of his mouth was her own name. With much difficulty she eventually realized that he was pointing out that she possessed the same name as the main character in a book he had read—_Pride and Prejudice_. She laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. She was beneath a hospital in a small basement room where only a dim yellow light streamed through a few small windows. She was conversing with a man so deformed one could scarcely tell he was a man at all. And he was asking her whether she had read books by Jane Austen and if so what she thought of them. She was thankful, _so_ thankful that she _had_ read _Pride and Prejudice_, actually, and could comment easily on the character who shared her name. She pointed out that it was all they shared, for she had very little else in common with the young protagonist. She was quite surprised when he commented that she had more in common than that with Elizabeth, for they were both quite beautiful. She turned her eyes away and blushed and murmured her thanks while Frederick Treves mumbled something quiet to Joseph about his comment. After that, the conversation focused almost entirely upon books and Elizabeth left that afternoon with a list of things she needed to read before she might visit Joseph again.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews: **THIS chapter is the one that put me in such a state of consternation two chapters ago when I begged for extra encouragement. You might notice the lack of dialogue in the form of direct quotations, and I think this stems from my hesitation to put words into the mouths of real people. I struggled with this one a long time and am not upset with the results, though I know that there is always room for improvement. As always, I'm accepting suggestions but will take any comment at all that you are willing to give. And also as ever, thank you all _so much_ for reading, and goodnight!


	82. Chapter 82: Mesmerized

**Author's Note:** I'm finally caught up now, so we can do these next couple of chapters one a day or perhaps even faster than that. (Two per day? One early, one late?)

**Standard Disclaimer:** _Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

* * *

Erik watched angrily as for the fourth time that rehearsal Christine strutted across the stage almost _proudly_ with her head in the air. Confound her, she would ruin it entirely! She was supposed to be disgraced! _Dishonored!_ And on top of that she was _dying!_ How did she look so joyful?

He stormed onto the stage without thinking and without stopping the action of the scene. When she paused just left of center and drew a breath to begin her aria he was so close behind her that she nearly stepped on him when she turned to face the audience.

Her eyes met his and there was a moment of recognition and terror as she saw they were Erik's eyes. Then there was a flash of confusion as she looked at the rest of his face in consternation. They were Erik's eyes—_Erik's_ eyes!—in a strangely normal face. Her vision swam. She swooned.

She could barely make out the words he was shouting at her. "You are _not_ proud! You are _not_ satisfied! You are _disgraced_, do you understand?"

He might as well have been speaking Russian for she didn't understand a word of it. A portion of her mind was screaming out that it was Erik's voice—_Erik's voice_ at last after all this time!

"Dis_graced_! Dishonored. _Shamed_," he continued. "When you next cross this stage you had better _look _shamed or so help me I shall see to it that you _are_ shamed and you shall not cross this stage again!" She caught part of it. Shame and disgrace. Then she was falling, falling as her vision darkened and the ground swam up towards her. Ah, she was always fainting into Erik's arms, wasn't she?

But she wasn't. Erik's hands neatly clasped each other behind his back as she swayed in his direction and when he neatly sidestepped, the diva hit the ground with a sickening thud just before he walked away amid protests and remonstrations. Anger flashing in his eyes, Anton stepped into his path, a hideous monstrosity in the worst of the three masks. "You could have _caught_ her!" he cried.

Erik looked down at his gloveless skeletal hands and flexed them with a wry grin. "Believe me, she quite prefers I don't with these."

The other's rage boiled over. "At least you could have slowed her down if you are too weak to hold her, you feeble—" and then he was silent as the bony hands came to rest on his arms and the oddly incongruous face came close to his with eyes that flashed.

"What these hands are capable of is beyond your comprehension," he told the boy. "I could _break_ you, but I _choose_ not to. Now make yourself useful and find someone to carry her off so we can continue rehearsing." He turned and strode away; without looking back, he was certain the boy was carrying out his orders and it gave him a certain satisfaction that he could be intimidating even without showing his ugliness.

With both leads off stage, one barely coming to and the other hovering over her pathetically, the company seemed at a loss until Erik directed Nadir to a section that required neither of them.

Christine stared up gratefully at the handsome face of the young Russian entirely concealed behind the hideous mask and murmured her thanks.

"Don't speak, don't speak. I've sent for the doctor. You've bumped your head," he told her. The face was hideous but the voice was lovely just like Erik's, and yet it was somehow like waking up in Raoul's arms that night in her dressing room. Erik was here and she was in the arms of another!

She struggled to get to her feet. "I am fine. It is nothing. Let me go," she insisted.

"No. Wait for the doctor. You could be hurt!"

"I must speak with him at once. That is he! It is he! Is it the same man? The one who told you he was the composer?" She struggled against him even as she asked the question. "Let me go! I must speak with him!"

"I have spoken with him already. It was highly inappropriate—" He managed to keep her from getting up by kneeling behind her and wrapping his arms about her waist.

She contorted her torso to face him. "To correct me? To _instruct_ me? Are you daft? That is what he is here for!"

"He may have written it, but he has to relinquish total control at some point. What is he even doing here now? His part is finished! Why is he—_directing_, too? Well, no matter. Whatever the case, he has no right to be so insulting." He gingerly touched the place where her head was beginning to bruise. "Look what he has done to you," he said.

"Then it _is_ he who composed it! I was certain of it! But _how_—? But he has done nothing! He is without blame in this. I merely fainted. Perhaps my corset— " she rationalized putting her hands on her hips and attempting to draw a deep breath.

"He _just let you fall_!" Anton cried. "_I_ was down stage. _I_ couldn't _get_ there in time. _He _was _right beside you_. Indeed, had he simply stood still he would have slowed your fall! He deliberately stepped away to _allow_ you to fall. He—"

"He is without blame, Anton!" she rebuked him. "You'll not say another word against him. It is what he is here for and if you are not a fool you will do everything he says and never question him!" She pushed him away with finality and got to her feet on her own, steadying herself on a nearby setpiece and leaving him behind, still on his knees. "When the doctor comes, you shall tell him you made an error. I was only resting. You shall say nothing against him or it shall be very costly for us all!"

"Costly! Has he threatened you?"

"Threatened me? What are you trying to do, cause a disturbance? Lose us all our jobs? Do you even want this role?" She turned away. "Have you any idea how fortunate you are to be in his presence?" She took a step to go.

She was angry now. She would walk away and leave him then. She. His only friend in this strange country where he knew no one. He did not realize how he had alienated the others that first day with his flashy clothing, how he had further pushed them away by exceeding their ability and finally sealed his fate by befriending Daaé, not only a diva but also the haunted one, whom it was said had known the Opera Ghost intimately. He knew only that the Opera was very lonely and that no one spoke to him at all save this one lovely young woman, and now _she_ was angry with him.

"Please..." he choked on the word, and she glanced back. He was on his knees holding his arms out to her. She noticed the catch in his voice and the look in his eyes. She hesitated and looked in the direction she suspected the composer had gone, then glanced back at the man on his knees. _Erik_ was out there, and yet it seemed Erik was _here_.

She faltered. "Say not another word or I shall utter nothing to you except my lines."

"Oh please don't say that," he begged. "Please let me—"

She turned her icy gaze on him. "Let you what?"

He hung his head. "I won't say anything else to or about him again if it means that much to you..." He hesitated. "Please let me... take you... for a drive this evening." It was uttered without any hope of being accepted, but it was uttered with absolute longing, and she allowed a faint smile to grace her bloodless lips.

"You mean that?" she asked. "You'll never saying anything about him again?"

"If you wish it."

"Absolutely I do."

"Then I shall oblige you," he said softly. "I am..." he paused "_entirely_... at your mercy."

She tried to turn away again and found she could not. She had to go find that man, if it really was Erik. And yet, she could not leave this man so seemingly broken behind her. She hesitated, took two steps towards where she believed the composer or director or whomever was, then turned around and returned to the hideous creature on the floor. She sunk to her knees beside him and took his hand.

After that she lost her smug air entirely and never neglected to look ashamed and tragic during act four. People remarked long afterward that she seemed completely changed after that, though they blamed the nasty bump on the head she'd suffered, for they had no way of knowing the turmoil in her heart after that bizarre juxtaposition of the two men.

Even so, they still avoided her, for she was still the haunted one, and her presence here was a reminder of the strange events of the past. To date, no one had seen the Opera Ghost since the reopening. Nothing terrible had happened. Indeed, no one had seen any _sign_ of the Opera Ghost, in spite of, or perhaps _because of_, Daaé's presence as the lead. Superstitions ran higher than they had prior to the closing for all had performed some type of ritual before entering the place, and now each repeated his ritual, satisfying himself that it was this and this alone which kept the Ghost from returning.

* * *

Weeks had gone by and at last Anton had had enough of those infernal masks. "I can't take it anymore, Christine!" he gasped during a break in which scenes were being shifted. "You can't even imagine what it must be like for me to wear this thing, day in, day out..."

She looked at him, at his terrible masked face and was filled with the horror of memory.

"Christine," he moaned, "it's _so_ uncomfortable. You know I can scarcely _see_ when I look to the sides or down! And the thing clings to my skin and makes my face sweat and I never get a moment's peace for when it is time to take it off at last, it is only to put on another, and then another until the very end. Oh, Christine, you can't know how dreadful..."

"Hush Anton," she said sharply, but he was surprised when he looked over to see tears in her eyes. "You're right that I can't even begin to imagine it," she said. She had never thought to imagine it until just now, and she dared to remember that somewhere out there was the real Erik, who had likely worn such a thing every day of his miserable life. "I am sure others have suffered far worse than you." In fact, he might be right here, she thought, remembering Erik's eyes in the director's face, Erik's voice in her ears that day she'd played act four wrongly. If only she could find herself alone with the man, she would call upon him to remove his mask, for surely it must be Erik underneath. But he was as ghostly as ever, disappearing into the air at the most inconvenient moments. But if the director was Erik... "You mustn't say a word to the director, Anton, for he'll show you no sympathy."

"Oh, God, how I hate it!" he cried, putting his hands over his face and peeling at the edges of the sticky, sweaty, rubbery mess. "Can you even _begin_ to imagine how it _feels_ to work all your life to get to this point and when at last you are here no one even sees you?"

She couldn't imagine that either, but it reminded her of the idea that Erik had spent his whole life doing—what? Composing? And God knows what else! And no one would ever know or appreciate his work. Or at least, it was how it had seemed until now, for this was surely Erik's work. Was this the closest the world would come to knowing Erik? What would they think of him? Oh, poor Erik! She felt the tears come to her eyes again and fought them unsuccessfully.

"Oh, Anton, please stop!" she cried. She was openly weeping now where she knelt on the floor, and he could not begin to imagine why for it was not _she_ who had to wear the wretched things, she was not the one whose glory was to pay the price of being hidden away until the last possible moment. She would strut across the stage, the full glory of her beautiful face shining to the whole of Paris while he... he...

He slowly looked up, for a man was standing before him, calmly waiting for him to regain his composure. He raised his eyes slowly to meet those peculiar amber eyes of the man who had introduced himself as composer of the opera, who had stepped away when Christine had fallen, who had flexed his strange hands at him then held him by the shoulders in a grip like a vice. At last he understood Christine's questions: _What did his hands feel like? Are they cold? And thin? Too thin? Bony?_ Like death himself, he'd tell her if she asked again, but he would not bring it up. He had promised he would never speak of the man to her again.

The man spoke to him in a calm and melodious voice. "I assure you, she has absolutely no idea what it feels like," he said softly. Anton gasped at the look of the dark eyes which burned in a face in which they did not belong. The tall gaunt figure bent to him and helped him to his feet. The man wore no gloves today and Anton shuddered when those hands touched his. "_You_ have absolutely no idea," the figure told him, "but you are beginning to learn." Anton looked at the face. The man seemed to have several small crescent shaped scars, but the flesh itself seemed very familiar. He stared. "At the moment you have no idea what a great honor I have done you, but perhaps _someday_ you will." Those eyes seemed to burn right into his soul and he could not speak in return, not even to promise to comply with the director's every wish. He could not speak. He could not move.

Then, suddenly, the figure was gone and Christine was beside him crying out, "Oh my God, it is he, I am certain it is he! What did he say to you? What did he say?"

But Anton could not answer, so entranced he had been by those eyes. He got to his feet a changed man. He did not complain again about the mask or anything else he was asked to do. He bore it all with silent suffering.

Christine beleaguered him repeatedly with questions about the director, but found him strangely unable to answer her. He was stunned and after questioning him unsuccessfully she rushed off to look for him herself. She made a thorough search, but to no avail.

Now she doubted whether it was simply Erik disguised, for even Erik could not vanish so quickly without the use of a trap door or a secret place in the wall or some other such device. If Erik had died it might be the ghost of Erik or perhaps she had simply gone mad seeing Erik everywhere. Whatever the situation, she accepted it as something like punishment for they way things had gone between her and Erik previously. Consequently, she resolved to henceforth accept anything that happened to her as meant to be. Henceforth, she would think nothing of her own desires.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews**: Ummm... I can't think of anything creative to put in here this time, so just know that I always appreciate your comments, questions and concerns. Oh yes! I should say thank you to all those who addressed my "Is this too long" question in the reviews from last chapter. I am greatly heartened to learn that most of you would be okay if this went on forever. While forever is certainly not possible, I will NOT go out of my way to shorten it then. And to those who expressed a fear I might abandon it altogether, I would never ever do that unless I had confirmation that no one wanted to read it anymore. I always finish what I start.


	83. Chapter 83: Summons

**Author's Note:** There are only four reviews for chapter 82, but by this time I've learned that I have such a great group of readers out there that I don't have to withhold a chapter to squeeze reviews out of you. (On the contrary, many of you have been so kind as to reward me with an extra one for posting two in a day sometimes!) So here it is: Chapter 83. If I can get it together, I'll even try to put 84 up. Otherwise, check back tomorrow.

**Standard Disclaimer:** _Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

* * *

Elizabeth was beginning to think that she might just make a life for herself right here in London when the message came. She'd just been reflecting on the irony that in the story she'd told all these years about her life had given England as her origin, stating that it was a place to which she would never return. Now she found herself in England (for the first time in actuality) and she was seriously considering calling it home. A long letter to her brother let him know that she was well and apologized for having been out of touch, indicated she was in England for a time, informed him of the address of the hotel and stated that she was considering staying on indefinitely and would advise him further when she had a permanent residence. A letter to Wilhelm gave her location and nothing more. It was an absolute necessity to tell him it was entirely finished—the working relationship as well as the dream he held that someday she would be ready to love again—but she put it off. She was deciding whether it was worth the trip to Germany to pack her belongings or whether she wished to simply forget it all and start again here from scratch. She would tell him once she had decided for certain.

In the meantime, her second visit to the basement room in London Hospital had been rather more comfortable than the first. After it, she'd had a long conversation with Treves in which she asked him a great number of questions (and was somewhat disappointed from a personal standpoint to learn that whatever Merrick's affliction was, it hadn't been apparent at birth and was progressing; medically, his acquaintance would be of no use to her in coming to terms with what had happened to Jacob) and revealed that she was considering staying in London indefinitely. Upon learning that she had no relatives in town he determined to introduce her to his wife who would in turn introduce her to some of the other ladies and ensure she had adequate connections about town. She graciously accepted and, though she continued to consider him a friend, immediately commenced not to see him, for he was very busy. Nonetheless, the acquaintance with his wife quickly led to other acquaintances and soon she had a rather full social calendar, on which she continued to include visits to Joseph Merrick at intervals of approximately once a week.

She was absolutely certain his name was Joseph now, and she never did manage to discover why it was that Treves insisted upon calling him John, but she was almost completely certain that Joseph was what he called himself. The more often she visited him the more easily she understood his impeded speech and the better she became at that, the more easily she could relax and actually learn to enjoy his company. It became a friendship of sorts, but always with a certain amount of distance between them. Elizabeth revealed very little of her past, and Merrick revealed still less of his. Elizabeth often began by telling him what she had done during the week—the plays she had seen, the people with whom she had conversed, the historical places she had visited, and of course, the books she had read, which, usually, were the ones he had recommended the week before. He was then full of questions about the things she'd shared, but mostly, he was full of opinions about the books.

Merrick's taste in books was peculiar for a man, Elizabeth thought. Everything he recommended was a romance. It troubled her some but she read them anyway in order to always have a topic for conversation. She wished to ask him about his own life, but she'd been warned by Treves that he wouldn't speak of his childhood, and didn't want to be disrespectful. Sometimes, in the carriage on the way there, it occurred to her to reveal something of Jacob, or of Erik, but always once she got there she did not. Instead, they continued to analyze the numerous books in Joseph's growing library, from which, once he was certain he could trust her, he occasionally lent her a book for the week. They were always, _always_ love stories, and it made her wonder terribly what Joseph would say if she had mentioned Erik. Even as it occurred to her she realized the truth would make an interesting plot and Joseph would certainly romanticize it as he did everything else. Certainly he would tell her to go back to him. But it wasn't practical. It wasn't even possible considering the walls, the gate, the distance he'd intentionally placed between them. Perhaps it was why she didn't mention it. She didn't want to start an argument with someone who essentially would agree with her. It was better simply not to think about it. And a conversation about Erik in other way—or a conversation about Jacob, perhaps—would raise the issue of appearance, and she much preferred the friendship this way—as though appearances did not exist. It was far safer to focus on the plots of romantic stories.

Truthfully, though, Elizabeth didn't want to think about anything romantic now. It had almost destroyed her the first time and the second time she'd almost fallen into it, it had had rather the same effect—drowning her in a sea of depressive emotions. She was content now here in London having tea with the ladies and occasionally going for a stroll with Richard, the middle-aged widower into whom she had quite literally stumbled upon leaving the hospital after her first visit to Frederick Treves and who had rather soon after invited her to a play at the Drury Lane Theatre, which they both enjoyed immensely. After that, they were together almost daily and their mutual friends, for it did not take long at all to acquire mutual friends in Elizabeth's new social circle, exchanged glances and all expected that perhaps that someone as unusual as Elizabeth was just what Richard needed.

He'd recently acquired tickets to see _The Mikado_ and naturally he wished her to attend with him. She hesitated at the word "opera" for though she knew that the works of Gilbert and Sullivan were a different genre entirely from anything that she would have experienced in Paris, she was alarmed that when Richard had said the word her heart had suddenly begun to pound wildly and she felt the adrenalin rush through her. She dared not consider what that feeling meant, though she did eventually allow Richard to persuade her to go to the Savoy Theatre with him and in the end she was glad she did, for she found she actually managed to laugh a bit that night and idly tried to recall when was the last time she had laughed before then.

She'd picked up the diamond, now set in a simple but lovely ring, from the jeweler shortly after her first meeting with Joseph Merrick. She had been wearing it on the third finger of her right hand ever since, rather to the dismay of Richard, who had been entertaining the thought in the back of his mind that someday—in due time, mind you—a well-educated and well-traveled widow like her might be interested in marrying a gentlemanly widower such as himself. When he remarked upon the finger on which she was wearing the ring, she merely shrugged her shoulders and shifted it to the other hand.

Erik was a name she never mentioned, not even in her own thoughts after she resolved not to speak of him even to Joseph. He was as remote as Jacob; he would never be truly forgotten, but he would never be spoken of, either, and he would be thought of as little as possible for the feelings that came with those thoughts troubled her. Paris was a place she had visited once, seemingly a long time ago. She didn't speak of it either. Erik was someone she put from her mind entirely and dared never think of. He was associated with a brief period in her life immediately after that during which she had become confused and exhausted from overwork. That had been the purpose for the holiday in Paris in the first place, had it not? It hadn't been much of a vacation after all. She had not been entirely coherent. She had only been trying to help, but perhaps she hadn't. She had made too many mistakes with him. Perhaps she'd left him worse than she'd found him.

In the past she had always chosen to work. Though she had no monetary need to do so, it kept her busy, kept her from feeling like she was wasting her time and her talents. Now she had no desire at all to return to the type of work she had done with Wilhelm and was content, instead, to socialize and read and simply participate in society. During her many visits to London Hospital she had become acquainted with a number of the doctors and nurses and at some point she had revealed her past experience with Wilhelm in passing. It was not too long later that during another of her many visits she was encouraged to consider pursuing a nursing position. She'd politely indicated that she was not interested in working at the moment but that she would continue to visit and would let them know if anything changed.

She did not think of Erik. Except that one night, very late, as she stood on the balcony looking at the stars and happened to notice a carriage trotting by beneath her and she wondered who might be about in a carriage so late. And that one afternoon over tea looking into Richard's eyes and noticing that there seemed to be no light at all in them. And when she rolled over in the night and found the bed empty beside her and threw her arm around a pillow to assuage her loneliness, _Erik_ was the name she murmured in her sleep. But for the most part, she did not think of Erik. She did not think of Paris.

Nor did she think of her past in Germany, or of Wilhelm, which is why she was entirely caught off guard when she received a telegram from him one afternoon.

**:Freud in Paris. You didn't know? Salpetriere Hospital. Meet there soon as possible:**

The message might as well have informed her she'd been condemned to death. Wilhelm would be in Paris and he wanted to meet her there. Erik was in Paris. How could she manage it? What could possibly be worse than having to confront the issue of Erik and the issue of Wilhelm at once? Her mouth went dry and she sunk into a chair wishing that just once she could faint like the younger girls so that someone would rush over and solve the problem for her. It wasn't possible, though. She alone could solve this one. It was, after all, her own fault for not having told Wilhelm it was finished in her letter. If she had, he wouldn't have invited her anywhere, and that would mean she wouldn't feel obligated to appear in Paris. Now she would have to travel back to Paris. And she couldn't very well visit Paris without returning to the Opera to see how Erik was faring, could she? But it was no matter. She could avoid seeing them both quite simply. It was as simple as sending a telegram back to Wilhelm. It would cost her next to nothing. Two words should be sufficient.

**:Not interested:**

Instead she sadly packed a few dresses in a suitcase and made arrangements to have the remainder of her belongings packed and temporarily stored. Throughout the week she met with all her wonderful new acquaintances and said her goodbyes; to Richard, to Anne Treves, to Joseph Merrick. All her goodbyes were tearful, for though she stated she would be back as soon as possible, something stronger than logic told her she would not return. Ultimately, when she did at last send a wire to Wilhelm the message consisted of the name of a ship and the date of her expected arrival at the port.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging For Reviews****:** Two chapters in one day! How do you like that! If I can get the next one together, I'll post it, too. I've been writing ahead while the London chapters had me stumped, so I should be able to post daily for about a week. Enjoy.


	84. Chapter 84: Changed

**Author's Note:** Greetings, everyone! Less than 12 hours and posting again. I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe I have a sincere desire to get this over with or maybe I'm just figuring that I'd better post while I can (as in Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die).

**Standard Disclaimer:** _Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

* * *

Erik was strangely silent that evening when Darius brought supper to him and Nadir. He scarcely touched his meal, which was not ordinarily peculiar, but combined with the look on his masked face, the lack of conversation, and the down-turned corners of his eyes, it spelled trouble to Nadir, who contemplated while chewing whether he should ask or not, offer assistance or not, acknowledge the change or not. Ordinarily Erik talked while Nadir ate, avoiding this uncomfortable silence. In fact, Erik talked rather a lot at times, filling the space of their time alone together with complains and requests, remonstrations and occasional sparse praise. Nadir had initially taken it for annoying fault-finding but eventually came to accept it as simply Erik attempting to make conversation. After all, what else was there to talk about? He never left the Opera and never talked to anyone else other than he. Tonight, however, he was silent, and the silence was heavy and awkward.

At last Nadir broke the silence. He set his glass down, swallowed, and said, "What is it, Erik?"

Erik merely lifted his eyebrows. It was uncanny the way the mask pasted to his face in all the right places showed his expressions right through. At first he'd seemed unaware of it and continued to gesture—or to assume that no one could read his face at all, leading to quite a bit of mild amusement for Nadir. But at last, facial expressions were becoming second nature now, though, and Nadir thought it encouraging. It was a step, though perhaps a miniscule one, towards being like everyone else, which seemed to be what Erik wanted more than anything. He remembered Elizabeth's comments about tea. Once, over tea, she had suggested to Erik that he needed to have more friends. It seemed Erik couldn't manage to keep more than one companion at a time, for though he dined regularly with Nadir, the woman was gone, he avoided Christine in ways that made Nadir question his sanity and he spoke to no one else save to give directions. Nadir couldn't think of anyone it might be appropriate to invite to supper, and when he'd once broached the subject Erik's eyes had met his with such an intense look that he'd turned his own eyes to his plate and said nothing more even after Darius had cleared the dishes. Eventually Erik had stalked off without even saying good evening. That night he'd appeared angry, but tonight was far worse. Tonight he seemed _lifeless_.

"Erik, there isnot a thing I can do if you don't tell me what is bothering you," he offered.

Erik pushed his plate away and leaned heavily upon the table. "There is not a thing you could do anyway," he said tiredly.

"Is it the cast," Nadir began. "If someone is—"

"It is _not_ the cast."

"If I have done something wrong... or the crew... or is it the orchestra?"

"It is... _nothing_... to do with the production," he managed. Then he pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

"Erik," Nadir began again, but he was out of ideas that could be expressed aloud. It might be Christine, whom Nadir had seen behaving very affectionately toward Anton of late. But it could be anything. He'd noticed tears in Erik's eyes while watching the young dark-haired mezzo-soprano Corentine practicing her aria from act five the day before. He reflected that perhaps Erik fell hopelessly in love with every attractive woman he saw and he was now pining away for this one. He desperately hoped it were not so, for it was said that Corentine was in love with a young man named Charles, and indeed she'd been seen in the boy's presence frequently. He desperately wished to avoid something akin to what he'd gone through with Erik when Christine encountered Raoul again and suspected that Erik felt the same. After all, he had rejected Elizabeth out of fear that she had another man in her life in Germany. Idly, Nadir wondered why Elizabeth hadn't written as she'd promised. He would have liked to have written back of Erik's sudden decision to produce his masterpiece, of his new mask, of his few but nevertheless significant interactions with the cast. She would have been so proud of him. Yes. Proud. He deserved to know it, but how to convey it, without saying her name?

Erik had turned and looked at him, a dejected, tortured look, when he'd called his name and now he was waiting to see if the Persian would say anything at all. "For what it's worth..." Nadir began, "I think you have done wonderfully here. Not just..." he paused. He'd followed Erik to Paris fearfully seeking to prevent him from committing murders and atrocities over ten years earlier. He'd spent more than a decade of his life in trying to prevent such from occurring, but now he lived in such close proximity to the man, never did the thought cross his mind that anyone was in danger. Erik _was_ changed. Through his experience with Christine, his experience with Elizabeth, even that dreadful ordeal in the torture chamber (which they still had not managed to dismantle!) and the day-to-day operation of the Opera, Erik had changed. "Not just with _Don Juan Triumphant_, Erik. With everything." Erik's eyes showed no recognition of the meaning of Nadir's words, so he tried once more. "You have grown, Erik," he said with sudden abandon. "You have changed. You are a better person now and I would be proud to call you my friend."

There was a faint glimmer in Erik's eyes. "Goodnight, Daroga," he said irritably. Then he turned and stalked off, following not his usual path but cutting through the manager's office and through the trap door, presumably in haste.

Nadir stared after him and continued staring long after he was gone. It could be anything, really. To presume it was an infatuation with one of the women was perhaps to underestimate him. It could be memories of some unpleasant thing done to him suddenly recalled seemingly without reason or guilt for one of the terrible things he'd done. Or it could be much simpler. Perhaps he was tired. He could even be feeling ill. It was hardly unlikely considering his apparent blatant disregard for his own body. Or it could be loneliness, not for a woman, but for simple human contact. Nadir could certainly understand that, for he himself socialized little and often felt somewhat isolated. Erik's isolation was far more profound. Tomorrow he would try again.

* * *

Christine tapped twice with the tips of her nails then tried the knob of the door. "Monsieur Kuznetsov?" she called pushing it open just a crack.

"Wait!" he cried, and she did, backing away from the door a bit. His voice possessed a frantic tone and she wondered for a moment if he perhaps had a chorus girl or one of the ballerinas in there with him. She felt her cheeks redden.

She waited, but she heard nothing that indicated anyone else was in there, nor anything that indicated he was dressing or otherwise preparing to allow her to enter. "Monsieur Kuznetsov?" This time there was no response. "Anton?" she tried. She waited yet again and fancied she could hear some sort of pained muttering, though she had to strain her hearing and even then it might have been her imagination. "I guess," she called softly "I guess I should go?"

"I'm sorry," he called back. "I would prefer not to have any visitors today." His voice was strained. He sounded terrible.

"What is the matter? Are you ill?" she called, leaning closer to the unlatched door and inadvertently nudging it open. She hurried to pull it closed again but not before noticing the young man was fully dressed and simply sitting in a chair. She pushed it open again and dared to step inside. He hid his face from her and her heart pounded, though if someone had asked her, she would have been unable to explain why.

"Please," he said, as he turned away. "Perhaps you can deliver a message for me?"

She frowned. "Of course. What is it?"

"Merely that—" he paused and took a deep breath. "I need a few days away from this place," he said.

She drew herself up to her full height and put her hands on her hips. "If he has done something to you, if anyone has done something to you, you should tell me right away. I might be able to do something about it. No, listen," she continued as he began to protest. "I know this place, and I know the people. I know all types of strange manipulation go on here. I could help you." It sounded ridiculous, she knew, and yet...

And then she realized it. He was still hiding his face. She couldn't bear it. All these references to masks and faces and ugliness—it had to be Erik, it just had to be, and she was beginning to think that it was all orchestrated solely to get a reaction from her. Why didn't he just appear then, if he wanted something from her? Appear and demand it as he had always done. He'd find her surprisingly willing this time, she swore. That was what he was avoiding then. Whatever he wanted, he did not want to merely ask and receive it. He wanted to exhort it through manipulation of some variety or another, and she was merely his pawn. She and Anton Kuznetsov were his pawns. What terrible thing had he done now? She was desperate to know.

She grabbed Anton's wrists and pulled his hands away from his face, and sighed with sympathy.

Anton's normally smooth face was marked by red sores in places where the mask rubbed and abrasions where it had been difficult to pull off and his skin had become white and puckered from long hours without air. Christine caressed his cheek.

"What am I doing to do?" he whispered.

"We'll think of something," was all she could say and she put her arms around him, allowed him to bury his face in her shoulder while she ran her fingers over his hair.

"What will I do about act five," he said, drawing away, utterly distraught. "You know I have to play act five barefaced!"

"We'll come up with something, I'm sure," she murmured staring unabashedly at the skin of his face. It was awful. It was rather nothing compared to looking at Erik, but to a person who had never met Erik, this would be quite a shock. In public it would garner a worse reaction than Erik, for this appeared to be some disease and people would no doubt fear it was contagious.

Anton's eyes lit up as Christine stared at him and he raised a hand to ensure he had her full attention. "Tell them I'll need a mask for act five as well. They can make one that looks like me. Or, however they most prefer Don Juan look in act five, it makes no difference to me. But I can't play it this way. It would not make the point, I think, as this is..." he turned to the mirror and his eyes filled with tears. "... as bad as—or worse than—the masks."

"No," she said. "This is not so bad." She drew him away from her and ran her fingers over his face, over and over again. "And this will return to normal in a few days of fresh air,"

"But look at me!" he cried.

"I know, I know," she said distractedly. "We'll think of something. Don't let it upset you. Everything will turn out fine no matter how you look." She placed her lips lightly upon his cheek.

In her mind she hated herself, for she had finally found the strength and the courage to do what needed to be done, and it was too late for Erik. What had she done to him? Had he taken it to heart or dismissed it as merely anger? And the truth was she had admitted the truth about the past, but she'd said nothing of the present. She could have said—should have said— "It doesn't matter _anymore_," but she hadn't. Would she ever get the chance to explain?

She couldn't fix _that_, but she could fix _this_. "Come," she told Anton leading him down the hall. If she didn't have anything in her dressing room that would help, surely some of the dancers would. They had all sorts of remedies they used on their feet for shoes that rubbed; surely something they could suggest would help. "Does it hurt?" she asked as she led him down the corridor, gently, as though he were a child or an invalid.

"Some," he managed with a sad shrug.

A soft "Oh," was all she managed in response, but she gripped his hand more tightly still.

* * *

Erik fairly ran down his corridor to the gate, fighting emotion as he fumbled with the lock. Once he was securely on the other side with the gate locked, however, he relaxed and allowed a single sob to escape. Then he composed himself and trudged down the remainder of the tunnels and steps to the lake. It was a chore to row across, but it would have been far worse to wade, so he endured it, tears coursing down the rubber mask out on the water where no one could see him.

Nadir's words rang in his mind, but instead of reassuring him as they had been intended, they served only to mock him and remind him that regardless of the rubber mask, the fine suit, the walking about above and being able to mutter a few words of greeting to those he passed, he was still a monster underneath it all. When he arrived at the house on the lake, he went directly to the mirror and peeled the thing off. Yes, it was certain. He was still a monster underneath. And it was worse than that, for he wasn't only hideous. He was also horrible, just as he'd always been, or worse.

Changed! Nadir's comment was an absolute mockery. He had not changed in the slightest. He had remained away from Christine for weeks, watching her from afar, never daring to approach her because he now knew for certain how much he horrified her. He'd told himself it was noble and right to avoid her, but underneath that he had deliberately cast her as Eva instead of Doña Elvira. It would not have mattered to any other singer, but Christine was not any other. She could have managed either part, and when he'd believed she loved him she had inspired the latter. He'd purposely assigned her the former to make a point, and he had made it. She looked so sad all the time now. So sad... except that one day when she had somehow found some joy somewhere, and he had rushed to the stage to stamp out whatever light she'd discovered.

He'd told himself it was finished, but he'd purposely taken that key and left it right where she would find it. Why? He was angry, that was why. He was angry and wanted to toy with her mind. But then, there were so many other ways to accomplish that. He'd stood there behind the wall and said nothing. He'd let her believe he was not there. What did he want from her, guilt? Longing? Why bother if it was finished?

And he could have simply told Nadir to remind her that Eva was dying and shouldn't look so delighted about it. He needn't have raged at her that way. He hadn't terrified her that badly in such a very long time! What had possessed him to treat her that way now? And then he had done the ultimate. He had stepped out of the way and let her crumple to the floor like a discarded doll. No, he _hadn't_ been wearing the gloves, but she would not have known the difference until she woke, and he could have been far away by then. She would have awakened to Anton's fine hands instead. Oh, she'd awakened to Anton's hands all right, and that hideous mask he was wearing that he couldn't possibly have removed when opened her eyes. That's what she opened her eyes to. And he'd done it on purpose—made sure she awoke to something that looked like him—hadn't he?

More to the point, why had he removed those gloves in the first place? Why indeed? He paced. He wouldn't permit the thought to come to the forefront of his mind, but it was there all the time behind the others anyway; he had known what he was going to do, anticipated her reaction and done it anyway. He had planned it. He would never, never admit it, but he felt a terrible triumph when he heard her body connect with the floor. The missing gloves were only an excuse. Oh yes, he could rationalize that he just hated them the same way he hated the terrible rubber mask... Well, actually, that was true, too.

Then there was that poor boy. His skin was so marred by now that it might not fully recover without scarring. You're doing this to the boy out of resentment, the Persian had told him. Jealousy... Sheer cruelty. Could it have been true? It was true, he hated him. He hated him for his handsome face and his magnificent voice and his youth and his vigor and the fact that he would easily find a woman who would marry him. He hated him for the fact that by the time Anton reached Erik's own age he would have it all, while here he, Erik, sat with nothing—nothing at all!

And you are ungrateful, thankless and unappreciative. It was true. He had a treasure hidden beneath the coffin and it meant nothing to him. A treasure that he kept from the world above because he had determined that they did not deserve it. Because of the few who had abused him, he turned his back on them all and the poor starved and died in the streets while he slept below, a fortune in diamonds beneath him. Well, he didn't necessarily owe the poor anything, but he hadn't even offered poor Nadir payment for his troubles. How long had the man been here? Dragging him from the torture chamber alone was enough, but he had stayed, brought him meals, talked with him, provided the front he needed in order to make the whole situation work. No matter what Elizabeth had given him—and her letter admitted it hadn't been much—it could not have been enough. Beyond that he was _kind._ He had gone out of his way to be kind tonight...

He had the Opera, all his own now, the arrangements made by a friend—a woman whom he had dragged by the hair, shackled to the wall, blindfolded, raged at, threatened, accused, used, taken advantage of, lied to, kept secrets from, and finally callously abandoned. And she had proceeded with the transaction anyway. And here he was with such a wondrous thing—such an opportunity!—and he dared to call it nothing.

He was making himself worse, and he knew it. There had been moments when he'd felt better, known he was getting better. Those moments before the mirror when he forced himself to look and thought aloud "It is not _so_ bad." But those moments were gone and now he was doing _this_ to himself.

Oh yes, he was bitter. He was bitter and jealous and angry. And he hated Christine for what she had said, even though, he thought, standing in front of the mirror and flexing his hands in front of his face, even though it was true, true, true. He held his hands in front of his face and inhaled deeply. He couldn't be certain whether he was merely used to the stench of death or whether his sense of smell was impaired enough that he simply could not detect it. He'd long suspected his sense of smell was not equal to that of those with fully formed noses, and he'd often told himself his acute hearing more than compensated for it. But in reality, to consider it tonight made him more bitter still. It was one thing to look like a corpse, perhaps even smell like one, but it was quite another to be entirely unaware of it. It struck him with a pang to wonder what life would have been like if he had been born blind. Hideously deformed and completely and totally unaware. And while he knew that he should, ultimately, be thankful this were not the case, it did not serve to make him feel any better.

The tears coursed down again over his cheekbones and into the hollows beneath them. He climbed into the coffin dejectedly. It was his only choice tonight.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Oh, poor Erik! I know, I know... I'll get him back out of this funk as soon as possible... I'm typing as fast as I can, but I think I need a nap first. How about in 12 more hours?


	85. Chapter 85: Concerns

**Author's Note:** Greetings, everyone! Less than 12 hours and posting again. I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe I have a sincere desire to get this over with or maybe I'm just figuring that I'd better post while I can (as in Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die).

**Standard Disclaimer:** _Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

* * *

When the cast broke for lunch the following day and Erik stood to hurry off, Nadir put a hand on his arm. Erik looked startled.

"Why don't you stay with us for once," Nadir said softly, almost inaudibly. "Us" in this case referred to himself and Messieurs Fournier and LeBlanc, who often dined with him. He'd arranged to have the food brought in under the pretense that they were too busy to leave. Erik shrugged and stayed where he was. He had only been planning to roam about his passageways anyway. It wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

It wasn't long before the cast and crew got curious, however, for they had never seen the enigmatic nameless director dine with the others before; he always rushed away. He must have been a very busy man, they all assumed, but was it too much to ask to that he at least introduce himself? Consequently, the meal was interrupted several times with urgent questions for Nadir always immediately proceeded by greeting Erik and apologizing profusely which Erik dismissed them with a casual wave of his hand and a lack of eye contact. Many quickly got offended, but of few of the girls became intensely curious about the strange man who had no interest in looking up, no interest in talking with them or even smiling at them briefly and looking at their trim figures in their dancing attire. The hallway to the room where they sat was a pilgrimage to the makeshift dining room all afternoon as various people of varying status came and looked in, pretended to be startled and then smiled, "Ah, good day, Monsieur," hurriedly composed a forced-sounding question to Nadir, and slipped back out.

Naturally, it eventually had to happen. A pair of slender hands gripped the doorway briefly, then the face followed, pale blue eyes framed by golden hair. Christine. Then, suddenly, above her Anton's face appeared as well, unmasked with wild dark hair. With his back to the door Erik couldn't see them, but he heard them down the hall long before the others did, even though they kept their voices soft. He was prepared for their entrance and did not look up. He noticed Nadir noticing them, though.

"Good day."

"Excuse us..." they began in turn.

"We just wanted to stop by..." _Good Lord. The boy looked terrible!_

"We apologize for interrupting..."

"...wanted to say thank you again for allowing us the opportunity to bring this splendid work to life." That was Anton. Christine shot him an appreciative look. It was good. Very good. Keep saying positive things, she thought. He did. "I am so grateful for this chance." He bowed deeply at the waist.

Christine had managed to work her way around the room for the opportunity to look at the man's eyes. Yes. She was certain now that she had the opportunity to look at him without surprise and without him berating her. Those were most definitely Erik's eyes.

Anton was finishing his attempt at a dialogue that had rather abruptly turned itself into a monologue when Erik declined to answer. He bowed again and moved to exit the room. Christine walked slowly to Erik and met his eyes. Surely, it was he. She looked carefully at the face. Why, it must be made of the same substance as Anton's many faces! And she remembered his words about the mask that made him look like anyone else. It was true. He was neither attractive nor ugly; his appearance was so vague and unmemorable that she doubted she would be able to remember it once she took her leave of him, though she tried desperately to memorize his new features. She focused her eyes on his. Surely he could tell she knew! She curtsied and extended her hand.

He glared at her. Ah, but she had asked for it. He slowly extended one cold bony hand and gripped her fingers briefly. He watched her face carefully; she didn't cringe. He withdrew his hand and watched her walk away. She hesitated, seemed to wish to say something, then smiled at the Persian and slipped out the door. He stared at the place where she had stood until the plates were cleared and the others departed. The Persian was the last to exit, lingering near the door then returning as though he had forgotten something. He laid a hand on Erik's shoulder and the other did not respond.

"Erik, are you well?" he dared to ask at last.

"My heath is not a concern, Daroga," he said without looking up. Nadir gave his shoulder a squeeze and exited the room. By the looks of you, it surely is, my friend, he thought as he sadly walked away.

* * *

In the end, Anton did not ask for an additional mask for act five and Christine did not have to worry about delivering his message to—well, to Nadir, she imagined. It was getting harder and harder to tell who was in charge of what around here—for someone, and Christine always suspected it was Erik, handled the problem for him. When they returned to Anton's dressing room the next afternoon, their arms full of bottles and vials and tubes from a number of the dancers they had asked for assistance the night before, they found a hastily scrawled note. Anton read it aloud.

My dear Monsieur Kuznetsov,  
It has come to my attention that you are having some trouble  
with the masks for your character. In the interest of preserving  
your true appearance, please immediately cease to wear them  
and dispose of the adhesive you are currently using. A more  
appropriate substance will be provided when available. In the  
meantime, it is critical that you treat your own face with the  
utmost of care. One gets only once face. Do not risk its being  
marred, for you should have to live with it forever.

Christine snatched it out of his hands and stared. The letter was unsigned. And it was written in ordinary black ink. And those were not Erik's painstakingly drawn letters. Yet she would not have been at all surprised if it had been in his red ink and his clumsy hand, for the tone sounded once again like him.

"Erik is behind this," she said holding it up and partially crumpling it in her hand.

"Erik _who_?" Anton murmured, irritably dabbing one of the many balms on his face.

"Oh," Christine breathed noticing and immediately taking over its application for him. A strange change had come over her and she was suddenly compelled to lavish care on concern on Anton, who, in Erik's absence was the closest thing she could reach to Erik. "There," she said running her fingers in a circular motion over his cheek, then planting a kiss on his forehead. "Better now?" This is how she should have been all along, she told herself. And if she could only find herself alone with Erik again, this is how she would be then.

"Christine," Anton murmured softly, his eyes closed, enjoying the touch of her fingers across his face.

"Yes," she said, not looking at him, imagining he was someone else.

"Who is Erik?"

"I can't talk about him," she whispered. "No one must speak of Erik."

"You seem very peculiar to me. Do you know that?"

She hesitated. How does one respond to such a comment?

"I do not mean this in an unkind way," he explained. "You are..." he paused to think. "You are not at all like the women of my country," he said finally.

"Oh really?" Peculiar? What a choice of words!

"All women here are like you, then?"

She smiled at the thought. "Hardly," she said, almost laughing.

He sat forward and opened his eyes. "Did I say something funny?"

"No, dear," she said. She actually suddenly _felt_ peculiar. What was it they were saying about her behind their hands? That she was... cursed by the ghost? Ah, but it wasn't a curse, she thought. It was a _blessing. _A blessing I_ misunderstood. _And_ rejected_. "There is no one else like me," she told Anton, her voice hollow and empty.

"I believe you," he murmured, closing his eyes again and trusting her entirely. There was most assuredly not anyone else like her anywhere. So lovely she was and yet, so serious and so temperamental. There were so many things about which one could not speak. She was superstitious beyond what one might considered normal for the business. One must never speak of any tragedy around her. One must never speak of the legends and stories that had been told about the opera house. One must never speak the name of Erik, whoever Erik was, though she herself used the name as both a invocation and a curse. She had an obsessive fascination with the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ repeatedly asking questions about his voice, what he had said and even about his _hands_. Well, Anton did have to admit that now that he thought about it, the man's hands were as she had described them. Cold and—Anton shivered involuntarily—rather deathlike. There was something very strange about Christine Daaé and he almost regretted making her his only friend.

* * *

_It was an absolute nightmare_.

Christine rolled over and over across the red silk sheets of the enormous bed, wrapped her arms around Anton, and gave him a long, deep kiss. As she released him he drew away and looked in another direction, distracted beyond words. She knelt behind him, ran her fingers over the muscles of his bare shoulders and smiled as she turned her eyes far to the left.

He threw her a glance and then looked away. "I've been wondering..." he lilted softly. "Dare I ask her?" he whispered.

Then suddenly he had turned, though only partially towards her. He grasped her by the upper parts of her arms and in his rich tenor he cried out, "Do you really love me? How can I know for certain?" Christine drew back, surprise on her face. She didn't have to answer, however, for he continued. "Do you even know me? What more do you know but the sight of my face? Would you have loved me? Could you have loved me? Ah, had you known, you don't know, shall I tell you? It is I..." He trembled, held out his hands, looked away... "I..."

She let out a startled cry.

"Ah, you remember me? Could you love me? Could you _have_ loved me... when..."

He couldn't finish and he didn't have to, for she understood what the question meant. She hesitated. She didn't need to answer. A moment's hesitation, and he knew. Then he was in a rage, throwing her from the bed, but it was carefully choreographed so she landed softly and facing away from him. Then he was raging behind her, crying behind her, bellowing with sorrow and she was so overcome with emotion she barely remembered her cue to shy away when he reached for her.

"She shall ruin this for me," Erik said to Nadir as they sat side by side in the front row of box five. Six words. It was the most Erik had spoken in a week. Nadir wanted to clap him on the back and welcome him back to the land of the living, but a glance at his eyes beneath his rubber face warned him to do otherwise.

"I thought she was rather convincing," Nadir responded carefully, bracing himself for abuse from Erik, but the other only sighed. _I thought you said you weren't interested in her anymore_, he wanted to say, but he wouldn't. He couldn't bring it up until he could be certain what the response would be and certain he knew what to do about it, and at the moment, neither applied.

It was only a moment later that Erik was gone, probably through the hollow pillar or one of his many trap doors, for when Nadir glanced over to say "I received a message today," Erik was no where to be seen.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews:** Ah ha! We are almost there! We are almost to the part we've all been waiting for!! (Don't worry. It doesn't just end when we get there... it goes on a bit longer... but we're almost THERE!) I imagine that a lot of you are out of town or busy with summer stuff because both hits and reviews are down, but I'm going to keep posting anyway for those who are managing to get here. If you join us later, please leave a comment anyhow!


	86. Chapter 86: Anhedonia

**Author's Note(s):**

1) I had to spend the morning in the waiting room at a dentist's office, so I took the copy of the Wolf edition lent to me by rappleyea and it just makes me want to say to all those Leroux fans out there, if it has been a while since last you read it, consider re-reading it again because I am just so blown away. The portion I read today (the portion where Christine goes to her father's grave) was not so different than the text I read the first (and second) times through, but I think that when I read it I was so eager to get to the part where Erik actually reveals himself that I hurried through it. This part was so incredibly rich that it broke my heart all over again to read it, knowing how utterly terribly it turns out in the end. It made me like Christine a less (and I know there are plenty of you out there who already hate her, but I've never been one of those... I just thought of her as childish and indecisive...) because... because... well, I don't know just re-read it, but Erik gave to her so much... :sob:

2) The hotel to which Elizabeth refers in this section is the place where she stayed last time as well. It was there at the time the tale takes place and is still there today and at present it's called Hotel Royal Opera. I am not entirely certain why it is "Royal" and not "Royale." Perhaps they are spelling in English for the US version of the website? At any rate, bear with me until I get the details worked out. The point, however, is that while she has returned, ostensibly for the purpose of meeting and working with Freud, she insists upon staying at her hotel by the opera, which, you will learn is a goodish distance away from where she is supposed to want to be. Oh dear.

**Review awards****:** I've kicked around this idea for a while but never bothered with it and now I am going to. I've told a couple of people "That is the sweetest, kindest, most encouraging review I have EVER received" and then right after that, someone else has said something wonderful, so I'm just going to try this for a while and see what happens:

Chapter 84: L'Arcange's review says (among other wonderful things) "I actually cried at the end of this chapter and that's not too good considering I'm at work." :(  
This was a total enigma to me. My reaction was "People don't cry about stuff I write—not unless they are crying at how poorly written it is!" (And I'm kidding. No one get upset and think I'm on some suicidal hate-myself bender. It just sounded funny at the time.) But ummm... yeah. It so totally blew me away that there is even the slightest possible chance that I could move someone to tears that I thought I ought to say "Thanks for the kindest most touching review I've received yet."

Chapter 85: Rappleyea's review said (also among other wonderful things) "And finally, I am sure that Erik himself is applauding your production of _Don Juan Triumphant_. You've conveyed such depth and meaning in the briefest of sketches." Oh dear me. Well, I'm glad someone thinks so. I was thinking "It's a good thing that Erik is fictional—or dead—because he'd be awfully upset if I'm getting it all wrong..." This was a welcome difference from my own opinion, and it felt good. Another "best compliment I've ever gotten" type of thing.

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

* * *

Erik knew it had been foolish to think he could bear to watch act three in his condition. He left after that first kiss. He knew what was coming next, and he did not want to deal with those feelings on top of what he already felt. He stalked back down below and remained there distracting himself with other music the remainder of the day.

It was a frustrating afternoon for Nadir, though, for once Erik disappeared, things fell apart. Everyone had questions about everything and the majority of them started with "Do I really have to..." or "You don't actually want me to..." for act three was... well, act three was rather decadent. No. Act three was _beyond_ decadent. When he was honest with himself, Nadir suspected that opening night would also be closing night. The rest of the time, he simply tried not to think about how immoral it would seem. Certainly acts four and five redeemed it, but he rather doubted that people would get that far. It was certainly entertaining to watch, if one didn't think about it too seriously. If one thought about it too seriously, one found oneself in despair.

* * *

It was halfway through the second run of act three that Christine suddenly stopped midway across the stage, her mouth dropped open and her eyes filled with a sudden revelation. Anton saw her expression in his peripheral vision and froze as well. "Is it Erik?" he whispered to her when she at last managed to cross the stage to him.

Her face turned ghastly pale. "How do you know of Erik?" she whispered.

He smiled. "Because you spoke of him yesterday in the dressing room," he said.

"Oh. Oh! Oh, that. No. No, it was not Erik." It was Erik, in a way, but not in any way that Anton could possibly understand. She had just realized, as Eva was pursuing Don Juan in such a ridiculous fashion, that she _herself_ had done the same thing with Erik. It made no sense at all if it were Erik's own story, for Erik had insisted that his work was complete the night he offered her the ultimatum. Don Juan Triumphant _is finished,_ he had said. _And now I want to live like anybody else_. If it were finished, how could he possibly have predicted she would be following him by only act three? Unless it really was merely an opera. The masks, the pain, the rejection, they were themes that he would certainly incorporate into anything. But this was not necessarily _their_ story. It made her feel less culpable though she could not immediately ascertain the reason this detail would assuage her guilt.

What she did not feel any better about were the words she would have to sing, to and about Anton—no, to and about Don Juan, she corrected herself—during this act. They made her feel like a woman with no morals. Ah, _that_ was Erik's point about act four! You are disgraced, he had told her. Yes. Eva had easily disgraced herself, had allowed herself to be disgraced by Don Juan. There, she comforted herself. That part never happened in real life either!

When at last she got a break, she pushed through the crowd to reach Nadir, only to have to wait in line while everyone else asked him a barrage of questions he could not answer. Christine waited, impatient behind a patient facade, for she had a question she knew for certain he could answer if only he would, and at last, she was granted the opportunity.

"Where is Erik?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I will not fall for it twice."

Nadir's eyes widened. "Why, Mademoiselle Daaé," he began.

"I recognize his _eyes_, Nadir. You cannot believe you could fool me for long when I could look into his eyes. I have spent too many nights remembering those eyes to mistake them now!"

What is this then? Christine Daaé had spent _nights_ remembering Erik's eyes? There was no point in denying anything. She would not believe a word he said. Yet he would reveal nothing. "What are you asking of me?"

"A chance to talk to him. That's all." She looked up at him and as he looked back at her he remembered her innocence that night in the house on the lake, they way he had pleaded with her through the wall and the fact that even Erik acknowledged that it was she who had saved him. When had he come to view her as the adversary? Was it the night that Erik arrived at his apartment, sobbing and claiming to be dying? When he learned that after all, she had left him? Ah, but he didn't blame her. He couldn't really believe that any woman would willingly stay once she had seen him. But the girl looked distraught _now_, and she was asking _for_ Erik.

"I'll see what I can do," he offered. "No promises."

* * *

"What's so special about this Hotel Royal anyway?" Wilhelm asked as they left the train station, suitcases in hand and a porter traveling close behind with more luggage.

"It's by the opera house," Elizabeth replied.

"Ah, likes opera does she?" interjected Dr. Breuer. He was one of Freud's colleagues, but was also acquainted with Wilhelm. They'd met by chance at the port, sat together on the train and now were planning to share a carriage on the way to the hotel.

"Not that I knew of, actually," he told Breuer. "Elizabeth?" He whistled to a passing carriage for hire and the driver pulled the reins abruptly.

"I enjoy an opera as much as they next lady," Elizabeth replied with a close-lipped smile. Though suddenly it seemed the men weren't listening, anyhow.

"I don't think the hospital is by the opera house." He climbed up on the sideboard of the carriage and to confer with the driver. When he stepped back down he bore an exasperated expression. "Elizabeth, Salpetriere is more than five kilometers from the Opera and there are hotels right beside it!"

She shrugged. "Stay where you like, but I really do prefer to be at Hotel Royal."

"But you'll be so far away!"

She sighed. "It's not so far to travel by carriage to the hospital."

"It is over five kilometers," Wilhelm replied. He was very fact oriented. Once he learned a fact, he never forgot it. Meanwhile, the driver of the carriage was waiting for the party to get inside or determine where they were headed—or at the very least thank him and let him drive away.

"It would make far more sense to stay by the hospital and travel by carriage to the Opera one evening rather than to stay by the Opera and travel to the hospital daily," said Wilhelm loudly. He always spoke loudly. He had a very loud voice. A grin spread across his wide face.

"Perhaps it would. And perhaps you should do so. For my part, however, I wish to stay in the Hotel Royal." Her voice was soft and she wasn't smiling.

"That's my Elizabeth!" Wilhelm chuckled to Dr. Breuer. "More money than sense, she has! To the Hotel Royal," he told the driver, opening the carriage door and holding out his hand to her.

"I am not amused, Wilhelm," she replied. She grabbed hold of the side of the door and climbed into the carriage without his help.

His blue eyes sparkled and his ruddy face beamed up at her as he climbed in behind her. "I am only teasing, my dear. You know how I feel about you." He turned the other man. "She knows how I feel about her," he called down to Breuer, who climbed into the carriage and took a seat facing the rear.

"Yes, I know," she said tersely.

"Everyone knows how you feel about everything," the other doctor told him.

They chuckled together. "That's a good thing isn't it? Better than the alternative, no? I could repress it all, right? End up like old what's-his-name, right?" Then men exchanged verbal parries and laughed all the way to the Hotel. Elizabeth stared out the window. The drive took them right past the Opera and she looked carefully for signs of life, signs of business, signs of productions underway. She saw nothing from the outside and she wondered what had become of her friends who had once made their lives there—especially the one who had once dwelt in the cellars.

* * *

Her friend, if he was still willing to allow her to call him so, was shut up in the coffin, turned to the side with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms folded across his breast. It wasn't comfortable in the least, for the coffin was not too terribly spacious, nor especially padded inside, but it offered the sensation of holding his heart in, which made breathing _almost_ bearable.

He hadn't removed the mask this time for he could no longer bear the pain of tearing the adhesive loose and with it a layer of his nasty yellow skin. The face beneath looked a little worse each time he did so and each night as he looked he vowed not to put it on in the morning; his face was bad enough already, he mustn't make it any worse. But each morning he did so anyway, reminding himself that it was the price he must pay if he wished to masquerade as being like everyone else. Yes, it was a masquerade only now. He no longer believed he could _truly be_ like everyone else—only that he could pretend to be, for a time. He need pretend only until opening night, for once opening night arrived he would be free of the responsibility, free of burden, free of it all.

* * *

In the morning when Erik at last arrived, later than usual, Nadir had a ready speech prepared about disappearing, abandoning him, not participating in rehearsals, and so forth, but he discarded it all without saying a word when he saw Erik. This was not the same man who had walked into his apartment a few months earlier standing erect and tall, chuckling at his own jokes and making cryptic but sarcastic remarks. It was not the same man at all. This broken figure was not even a man. He was stoop-shouldered, red-eyed and silent. Worse than yesterday or the day before. Nadir grabbed him by the shoulder, dragged him into the manager's office and hastily shut the door behind them. The fact that he was able to drag Erik—once the feared and yes, _dreaded_ Opera Ghost—into a room with no resistance and feel no fear at all about doing so further emphasized the seriousness of the situation.

"Whatever it is, Erik, you have to forget about it," Nadir tried. "It is..." he paused, then continued with resolve. "It is killing you."

Erik's form was slumped in the chair where he had allowed himself to collapse as soon as Nadir closed the door. His back was so stooped that his head was nearly upon the desk. A brief flicker of his eyes was the only sign he'd heard the Persian's words.

"Do you hear me, Erik," Nadir tried again, leaning across the desk to peer into the veiled eyes. "Recall that night you came to me and said you were dying? This far exceeds it! And it is terrible timing, really, Erik. For... Look!" He gave up trying to be tactful because it simply wasn't possible. He threw the letter down on the desk right in front of Erik's pathetic fake nose. Erik blinked. Twice. Then he picked up the letter, glanced at it, and slumped further into himself than Nadir would have thought possible.

Just when he'd thought things couldn't possibly get worse, now he would have this to contend with.

"Erik, this is good news, is it not?" Nadir was giving him that same smile he'd had in the cellar that day he'd brought the package. It was the same handwriting as on the package. Why was this good news? He met the other man's eyes at last, but there was no light in his own eyes.

"Erik, this is what you wanted, no? Remember, what you said that day? You said you wanted—" he stopped abruptly as he realized his words were having the opposite of their intended effect. "Erik?"

He would disappear now, through the floor or out the door, it didn't matter which. He would disappear and there would be no way to reach him.

"We _need_ you up here," Nadir told him. "It was very bad yesterday without you. Please. If you are going below, leave the gate open for me. I will come to you only if things get very much out of hand, I promise. Please."

Erik shrugged, and Nadir felt encouraged. It was a response at least. So he tried again. "And this?" He lifted the letter. "Do you see the date it was sent? She should be here by now!"

At this a sound escaped from Erik that wrenched the Persian's heart. Erik looked up at him with wide eyes. "No," he whispered. "Not _now_."

"Now is all you have Erik. You will feel better for it, I am certain, once you have seen her." Then he added as an afterthought "It is what you said you wanted. And yes. For whatever it may be worth to you, what you want _does_ matter."

Erik continued to stare at him, listlessly.

"Let's start with today. Are you feeling well enough to help me here today?"

Erik shrugged then shook his head sadly. He didn't feel well enough even to walk back down below, but that much he would likely have to do. He couldn't just sit in the office all day, could he?

"All right. You wish to rest then?"

Erik peered up at him. It was an admirable attempt, yes, but he was not in the mood to be patronized. As a matter of fact, he was not in the mood for much of anything.

The Persian took his lack of complaint for assent. He rose and patted him on the back. (Was he coddling him like a child now?) "Take the day off, Erik. And I hope you do feel better. I _mean _that." Then, getting no reaction to his efforts, he slipped out the door and closed it behind him. It was no matter really. Erik was in one of his moods again, like before he'd decided upon an opera. The answer to some question with which he struggled would come to him eventually, and he would revive once again.

* * *

**Grammar note****:** "could _truly be_ like everyone else" Yes, I know that "truly" is misplaced, thereby splitting the infinitive "could be" and no, it's not a Star Trek reference (to boldly go, which should have been to go boldly) it's just that I wanted to emphasize "truly be" and it helped to have the words side-by-side. If anyone out there (you English teachers and grammarians, you know who you are!) can figure out how to rework the sentence so that I don't need to use an infinitive at all, I'd appreciate it.

**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** I've been dying. Hits are at an all time low for the summer vacation period, and to add insult to injury, I'm reading the Wolf version of Leroux. It is so rich—so incredibly full of _everything_—that I have to hang my head in shame before it. Someday, when I have more time, I will go back and put richer language in here so that it can truly be a worthy sequel. In the meantime, though, the story itself screams to get out and I oblige it. (Damn Erik and his manipulative compulsive need to control everything. Over a hundred years and an ocean away—not to mention _I'm not fictional_!—and STILL he has power over even me!) Meantime, aside from the sparsity (that's not a word yet, but I want it to be therefore someday it will be... it's like... sparse and scarcity) of the figurative language, are we still on track? Thanks in advance!

**Title Search:** Another chapter I can't figure out what to name. Ultimately, a one-word title would be nice. If that's not possible, though, I'll consider anything. THANKS!


	87. Chapter 87: Absentia

**Author's Note****(****s****): **Holy #&! All of the sudden all of you read and reviewed at once so fast it made my head spin. Wow. Okay... so... here's another chapter for all you swift readers out there. And uh... Regarding SilverDiva's message: Erik dejectedly sniffs that he's not trying to make readers feel guilty, he just really is that sad. Then he sort of sunk back onto the floor and moped some more. What do I do with him now? Any suggestions?

**Standard Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

**Review Awards****:** Special thanks to bwayphantomrose for providing the most encouraging review for chapter 86. No, I have never been on anyone's "top" anything list before. I feel tremendously honored. What did she say that touched my heart? That one of my lines gave her chills. Ah, yes. I love chills (except when they accompany fever... then they're no fun at all).

**Title Honoree****:** Special thanks to rappleyea and Dernhelm for suggesting titles for the last chapter. Unfortunately, the award for chapter title goes to a **non-reader**, my friend Bob, a therapist who happened to be visiting yesterday and mentioned the word anhedonia. What a great word, right? Definition: Loss of the capacity to experience pleasure. The inability to gain pleasure from normally pleasurable experiences. A core clinical feature of depression.

* * *

Several days passed, and Erik did not reappear. Everyone noticed his absence. Yes. _Everyone._

Nadir didn't realize that Erik had remained for hours listlessly staring at the wall of the manager's office before he finally worked up the strength to depart through the trap door. When Nadir did at last return to the office, it was many hours after Erik had left, and he was exhausted. He noticed Erik's absence, commented to himself in his mind about it, even ventured to miss him a little, but he was too tired—and besides, he'd promised he wouldn't unless necessary!—to go look for him. Instead, he made his way back to his room to rest and hoped that Erik would appear the next day. He repeated these actions in a pattern over the course of the next several days, worrying intermittently between other duties.

If she had not known it was Erik, perhaps Christine would not have cared about the sudden disappearance of one more figure in authority, telling her where she could or could not go, what she could or could not do and what she was (or specifically what she was _not_) doing properly on stage. But it _was_ Erik. And it was not lost on her that he disappeared immediately after Nadir promised to see what he could do regarding allowing her to talk to him. Apparently, this was his answer. He never wanted to speak to her again. It was not surprising after his angry words on stage. True, she'd been in error, but a wrong cue—a wrong facial expression!—was not cause for such anger. No, Erik had not forgiven her for her unkind words. She prepared herself for a life of guilty suffering in silence and in the very next instant resolved to try one last time to find him instead.

The corps de ballet noticed his absence. Specifically, the girls of the corps de ballet noticed. The boys were rather disinterested but to complain that the girls were paying far too much attention to a man too old even to be the father of any of them. But young girls are insatiably curious, so Erik could not possibly have done better if he had specifically wished to garner their attention than to disappear as he had. He had sparked their curiosity by remaining aloof. He was always too busy rushing off to somewhere to notice them and offer a kind word of encouragement. It was too easy to impress those who wished to be impressed, so immediately, they all set out to impress _him_. It was, actually, an unspoken contest among them, for whomever were to suddenly receive his approval would have to have done something spectacular indeed which the others must all duly acknowledge.

Unknowingly, he had peaked their interest the afternoon Nadir suggested he stay for lunch. He hadn't really _stayed for lunch_ so much as reluctantly resigned himself to allowing others to lunch around him while he neglected to get up from his chair, but the others considered it as such, and so it was. What business was so important that he stayed with the others to discuss it, the young dancers wondered, and each secretly fantasized that it involved herself—that they were staying to discuss her future, her status, perhaps even her promotion. Yes, that was it. He had noticed someone and would softly suggest that a change be made, and tomorrow one of the others would make the announcement. If curiosity were a flame, however, Erik's sudden disappearance immediately after this so-significant lunch caused a conflagration. What did it mean? Surely he hadn't stayed merely to announce his retirement! Or perhaps he had! Perhaps there were special instructions and fond goodbyes! He was gone? Gone, forever, when none of them had yet had the joy of his uttering a word to them? And the girls of the corps de ballet were devastated.

But if everyone noticed his sudden disappearance, no one noticed it more than the young man he had chosen to portray the protagonist in his autobiographical magnum opus. In truth, Anton would not have noticed at all had it not been for Christine. Not that Christine mentioned his absence, oh no! Christine had never even acknowledged his existence save for the day she offered him her hand so briefly. But Christine's peculiar superstition regarding someone named Erik and her sudden and extreme interest in the director who was not really a director but truly the composer (but more than a composer, for it seemed he had also written the libretto; was there anything the man did not do! Next thing they would tell him he'd been responsible for the construction of the structure as well!) struck a chord with him. It seemed that Christine was interested in few things outside of her art. She was interested in the composer, and she was interested in Erik. Anton was an attractive young man, but it is not always the case that those with fine looks are devoid of intellect, and Anton was one of those fortunates who happened to possess a bit of both. He easily reasoned that Christine wanted more information about the man who had introduced himself as the composer because she suspected a connection to her mysterious Erik, whose name must never be spoken.

So when Christine slipped away to descend into the depths of the Opera to look for Erik, a mere few steps behind her was Anton.

Perhaps the only person who did not notice the absence of Erik was Erik himself. He remained where he was, in his room, in his coffin, in his state of perpetual discomfort, masked and morose, utterly distraught but unable to cry.

* * *

"I know what happened to him," Sabine said with somber face and sullen voice one afternoon during practice.

"What's that?" asked Odette, who was certain Sabine couldn't possibly know but who couldn't resist a good bit of gossip when it came her way.

"Yes, tell us," the others cried, crowding around.

"Well, you remember the stories of the Opera Ghost?" Sabine began. Of course they all did and they all nodded enthusiastically. "Well, do you remember the old managers?" A few of the girls had danced under the old management and nodded again. Most had not and did not. "Their names," said Sabine, adopting the tone of a storyteller "were Monsier Moncharmin and Monsieur Richard. Richard was an astute businessman, and Moncharmin a splendid musician. But together, they were the team that led this place through the production of _Faust_—and eventually into ruin. But they didn't start out bad. They started out with the best of intentions, and everyone knows where those lead."

The girls murmured their agreement. Everyone knew that the road to hell was paved with good intentions and each shivered as she thought of the hell that the Opera had been through, of which they had undoubtedly read—or at least heard of being read—in the papers.

"Shortly after those two managers took the place of the two before them," Sabine continued, "they were contacted by the Opera Ghost. At first the ghost asked for reasonable things—a change of singer here, a seat in a box there. But then he became more and more demanding, asking for things the managers could not possibly bring themselves to do—the murder of a stagehand, and eventually" (here she paused dramatically and several girls gasped) "a compact for their very souls."

The girls shivered involuntarily. One dared to laugh and another dared to scoff.

"It's true, every word of it!" said Sabine. "It is why they left. They had to, if they hoped to be saved! But listen, for this is the important part! During the time while they attempted to resist him, those of us who were here watched them become more and more despondent. We watched them waste away, little by little as they tried to first to defy him, then merely to resist him, and at last to appease him. First went their relationships, then their sanity, and then their health. Finally would have been their souls, but they managed to leave in time. This place has been cursed, some say since they day it was built. But this new manager, he didn't know, I suppose, and now, it's happening to him."

There was a clamor as the girls protested and argued. None of them wanted the new manager to lose his soul. No, it is too terrible, they argued. He is too kind, too generous, too intelligent, too gentle, too virtuous for such a thing. They uttered these words without reservation, though not one of them had spoken a word to him or heard him speak a word to them.

"I should save his soul if I got the chance," said Marcelle with just the right inflection to suggest something scandalous, and all the others pushed her and reminded her that she was likely in danger of losing her own before she would manage to save that of another. At this comment Marcelle did not blush in the least. Instead she replied, "Even so, just the same, I'd like to have the chance to try." And she waggled her eyebrows and smiled seductively and all the girls squealed in delight at the thought of her own chance to try to "save his soul," each remembering him to be attractive and well-built, though in reality not one of them could call to mind the features of his face.

"Do you think the ghost killed him," Inès asked suddenly with a worried expression. She was the youngest of the group and perhaps the most enamored with him.

"Of course not, little fool," replied Marcelle. "Haven't you ever seen _Faust_?"

The other roared with laughter, for they all knew not only that _Faust_ was being performed during the ill-fated term of the prior managers but also the obvious connection to the girl's question.

Inès shook her head and Josette explained to her. "The devil would never simply kill a man, because the man might have repented and his soul would go directly to heaven where it is out of the devil's grasp. No, instead the devil would let him live and bargain with him for his soul." Josette's family was very religious and thus she considered herself to be quite an expert on the devil.

"What does the devil offer for a soul?" Inès looked fearful and not a little curious.

"Whatever," Josette replied with a shrug. "Whatever a person most wants. A person is nearly always willing to part with his soul for whatever he most wants. But do you know what happens when he gets it?"

"What?" the other girls all turned their faces to Josette.

"Do you know what happens when he gets it?" Josette asked again lowering her voice and widening her eyes. She was enjoying the spotlight now, and Sabine glared at her accusingly for having stolen it.

"Tell us!" they cried, pressing closer to her.

"Well, doesn't anyone pay attention during rehearsals, even?"

At this the girls were both ashamed and confused. It was true that many of them often did not pay attention, but what did that have to do with what the devil wants?

"What does Don Juan want most at the end of act two?"

The girls laughed and nudged one another with their elbows, swaying their hips and smiling. "Good looks!" they cried.

"Close enough," said Josette. "And what happened when he got them?"

Inès was eager to prove that even if she hadn't seen Faust, she was entirely familiar with their current assignment. "Then Eva fell in love with him but he didn't want her any more and then he married Elvira and but it didn't make him happy so then he seduced—"

"Wait! What did you say?" Josette interrupted and Inès scowled.

"He seduced—"

"No, the other part. _It didn't make him happy_." The girls shivered collectively at the Josette's suddenly haunting tone.

"Yes, so then he—" Inès tried, still desperate to demonstrate her knowledge of the story.

"_That's_ your answer then. What happens when they finally get what they think they most want?"

"It doesn't make them happy!"

Shy Chantal spoke up finally. "Will the devil let you trade it back if you're not satisfied?" she asked softly.

Sabine laughed and Marcelle said "Someone hasn't read her libretto!"

"No, of course he doesn't, silly. He keeps your soul." Josette loved the frightened looks she was getting from the younger girls.

"What does he do with it?"

"He... I don't know. _Tortures_ it, I guess."

"Why?"

"Because he's the devil! It's what he does. Why do you ask me such things?"

"Yes, but we have a _ghost_. Not a devil."

"Same thing."

"No, they aren't the same thing." They were all crying out at once now, arguing with each other and no one really listening.

"Sure they are."

"They are not! A ghost is a spirit of a dead person. A devil is an evil thing."

"Maybe it's the ghost of an evil person."

"So bad people who die become devils?"

"Of course! Good people who die become angels, so why not?"

"What kind of people become ghosts?"

"The kind who ask silly questions instead of practicing their échappé sur les pointes!"

This abrupt interruption from their instructor brought a hasty close to the subject of the soul of the dear director, but each of the girls continued to worry for him in the most secret part of her heart.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** Obviously, you know the drill. Please, please? Thanks in advance!!


	88. Chapter 88: Reflection

**Author's Note(s): **Maybe I'm out of my mind, but since posting chapters within 12 hours of each other didn't hurt reviews too much last time around, I'm doing it again. I just can't resist. I could hold onto it, save it for later, but I just can't stand to sit here knowing it's written and I'm not sharing it. So HERE IT IS! Chapter 88! (Oh yeah... and I'm sorry if it's a bit unbelievable. And I'm also sorry about the Russian. I'll transliterate it later!)

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian. We're only calling him "Nadir" by vote of the readers. Do not assume a Kay history just because of his name.

**Review Awards**: I think that the review that touched me the most from chapter 87 was from Madhatter45, who stopped by to throw me a compliment even though she's not really a reader of this story. Can you imagine that? Blew me away.

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Christine stood at the gate for a long time in wonder. After all these many weeks, the gate was open. Perhaps _this_ was Erik's true response to the question she had asked the Persian. He had gone away _to wait for her_. If only she had known—if she had at least suspected!—she would have gone earlier; she would never again leave him waiting. She hurried through the gate and down once more into corridors she more or less recognized.

The moment he realized where she was going, Anton had determined to follow her. When she noticed him, he had given her, by way of excuse, a number of reasons why he needed to protect her, walk with her, help her find what he was looking for, but she would not hear it. She ordered him back above before she even reached the gate, for she expected the gate to be locked, and she did not want Anton insisting upon waiting with her. Who knew what Erik's reaction would be when he exited the gate and found Christine sitting outside it with Anton? She could only speculate, and none of her ideas were pleasant ones. No, Anton would have to remain above, and so she sent him away.

He did not obey her, however, for he had still more to be curious about than she. After all, she knew for what she was looking; he _wanted_ to know. So after he reluctantly trudged away, he found a dark corner to sit and wait until she was presumably far enough ahead that he would not encounter her.

Once he passed the gate, however, he quickly realized his mistake. There was not simply one long tunnel, nor did the tunnel open into a larger area. No, it was a mass of twisting and turning passages, each one looking exactly like the one before it. He was not yet hopelessly lost, simply because he had no idea where he was supposed to be going, and therefore could not fear that perhaps he had not taken the right path to get there. He knew, however, that he would be easily lost on the way back up. It might have been appropriate to panic, but there would be time enough later to do that, if it became necessary. In the meantime, if he did encounter Christine again, while it was likely she would be angry with him, it was also likely she would know the way back.

Meanwhile, Christine had already reached the fifth cellar. She traversed quickly to the edge of the lake and stopped. He had not left the boat there for her! How was she to get across with out the boat? She stamped a foot and looked around in desperation. There was nothing—nothing!—on which she could cross the lake. She wondered about the depth of the water, whether it would be safe to try to wade across. She considered the fabric of her dress and doubted her ability to swim in it. She cursed aloud and then looked about as though fearful of being heard. And at last, utterly discouraged, she trudged back up the way she had come.

Christine did not encounter Anton on her way back up, however, for in the vicinity of the third cellar, he became rather curious about something that looked rather like a country farmhouse. He walked over to get a closer look and found it to be a set piece. He explored it thoroughly inside and out. There was not much to it, but it looked splendid from a distance. He was entirely impressed with it and wondered how elaborate the scenery for _Don Juan Triumphant_ would be when it was at last complete. He slipped around the side of the farmhouse to look at the scenery that lay beside it. It, too, was curious, but he could place what production it was from. Then he noticed something very strange and he squeezed his lean muscular body between the two pieces of scenery to peer into a rather foreboding hole. _Fascinating_, he whispered to himself, thrusting his lantern into the space. Alas, the light was not bright enough to show him what lay beyond. He wished Christine were here. He could imagine saying to her _What do you suppose is in here?_ and she would respond _I don't know, but we might find out!_ And they might, at that, for the space was surely large enough that each of them could fit through it. But Christine was not here. Christine was chasing Erik and strange composers. Christine might was well chase spirits; she wasn't going to find anyone down here! This space, however, might be interesting to explore, though, and if he found anything interesting—not that he would mind you, but if he did—he could bring her back and show it to her. She would be embarrassed then! She who knew the Opera so well, who said she knew people and who claimed to know the space below. She would be embarrassed and a pretty flush would spread over her cheeks and she would say "Oh, Anton, you silly boy, I knew this was here all along."

It was all it took to persuade him. He was through the space in an instant and shuffling along as best he could. His curiosity heightened as he found _a hole in the floor_. He lay on his stomach with his head thrust down into the hole, but he could see nothing. He withdrew his head and inserted his arm, holding the lantern, followed by his head and shoulders. Still, he could see nothing. He withdrew and turned about again so that he was sitting with his legs hanging into the hole. He peered down with the lantern between his knees. Strange. And then at last he made up his mind. He grasped the lantern tightly (and when he was asked later what prompted him to do this next he could not say why) and slipped forward into the empty space.

Anton lifted his lantern aloft and looked about. He had fallen into a very strange space indeed. He was in a room filled with—trees? Ah, but it made no sense. He was beneath the Opera, several levels below ground. Trees could not grow here. It must be more scenery. Ah, but they looked so real. He reached out to touch one, to feel the texture of whatever it was from which it had been sculpted. He touched glass. He stared in wonder for a moment, then recognized the reflection of his own hand reaching up to stroke a glass pane. Ah! A mirror! A reflection of a tree. He turned. Where was the actual tree? And there were a myriad of reflections. He smiled. _Гений_! he cried aloud. It was _pure genius!_ One had to sculpt only one tree! It saved so much time, for the mirrors could be used over and over again in a number of productions. One could reflect—well, anything! Houses. People! Yes, people! It would do wonders for a crowd scene. One wouldn't need to hire and pay all those additional people to make a crowd. One would simply reflect one's own small company again and again, reflecting their reflections for infinity. He walked the perimeter of the room then laughed aloud. _Великолепно_! he uttered. _Splendid_. Oh yes, he was _quite_ impressed. He wondered what other clever tricks the French had and looked about for a door. That was peculiar. There didn't seem to be one. He scratched his head and looked up. He'd come in through the ceiling, but there was no way to get back up that high. Curious. Well, it made no sense to have a room one could get into but could not get back out of. He frowned in consternation, then looked at the floor. One must get out the way one got in—by dropping through the floor. He fell to his hands and knees, sliding the lantern along in front of him with one hand, while feeling for the latch with the other. It would take him all evening to find a door by the dim light of his lantern and he sighed heavily. He was just grumbling under his breath in his native tongue when suddenly a light came on. _Возблагодарите бога_! he cried. _Thank God_! Ah! There was a button of sorts here—something like a protruding nail—and there was the door! He tugged at the trap where it had creaked open and it pulled open with a squeak to reveal a staircase leading down. He got to his feet, lifted his lantern and was about to descend when a panel of mirrored wall suddenly folded in on itself revealing what appeared to be a bedroom and figure silhouetted in the open space.

There was a moment of confusion as the two men stared at one another. The one inside the mirrored room was surprised. He was _very_ surprised to encounter another beneath the Opera, for he had been under the impression from the gate and from Christine's attitude, that it had been closed due to a terrible tragedy. Who else could possibly be down here? Who else would have any desire to come down here but Christine? After all, he himself had only come initially to follow her and had been lured farther but his own curiosity. What were the odds that someone else had behaved similarly? But he was also pleased to find a door that lead out horizontally rather than vertically, for he had not gotten an opportunity to explore this level and was not yet ready to descend to the one below it.

The figure in the doorway was _still more surprised_; he was also _terrified_. What would he do with the boy now? It wouldn't do to kill him and he couldn't allow him to go above where he might tell what he discovered. It was the final straw for the camel's back of his disturbed mind. He felt something inside him breaking, but slowly so that there was time to suffer in agony, knowing he was breaking. He trembled slightly and hoped the other did not notice.

He had awakened from a fitful sleep to the sound of a voice nearby. For a moment he blamed it on his rapidly declining sanity, but then something seized him and told him that he had enough guilt on his head already without he add more to it by declining to investigate a sound which clearly came from the direction of the torture chamber. He'd dragged himself up, his chest still aching with his internal torment, and shuffled the length of the hall to the Louis-Philippe room where he paused outside the door to the torture chamber and listened carefully. There was definitely someone in there, he thought. He glanced up. There was no light in the window yet. Whoever was in there had just arrived. He heard footsteps inside and a sound that sounded like surprised laughter. _Laughter_? From the torture chamber? Then he heard quite clearly the Russian word for splendid and he froze, for he knew Russian from his days in Nijni-Novgorod. Splendid? This is what a person says _in a torture chamber_? He glanced up again. No, it couldn't be the madness setting in already. The window was not illuminated. The light was not yet even on.

His heart pounded. Someone was in there. Someone clearheaded! It meant someone was trying to enter his home. And yet, who here would speak Russian except _that boy_? That boy knew nothing of him unless—ah, but Christine! She had never been faithful. She had told Raoul everything, too. _She tells everyone my secrets, but to me, she tells nothing_, he thought sadly.

But the boy was in the torture chamber! He must be gotten out quickly before something terrible happened. Ah, but something terrible has already happened, for he has found his way here, and getting him out will also be terrible. The light clicked on. Erik heard the sound of it and looked up. Yes, there was a light in the window. He could have climbed up to confirm that it was Anton in there, but what was the use? To torture himself as well with more pain and suffering he'd caused? Instead, he pushed the release for the door and threw it open. And this is what really surprised him.

The boy was standing slightly to the left of the center of the room holding a lantern aloft and looking _down through the trap door_. He had found that already? How? And he was not at all disturbed to be there?

The boy stared at him. He appeared to be in shock. Erik's hands strayed to his face. Yes, the mask was still there, where it had been for several days; he could not longer bear the pain of pulling it off, so he left it where it was. Once he'd touched it, though, he wished he hadn't, for something didn't feel right and he had to rub at the space beside the nose furiously in an attempt to quell an irrepressible itch. At last he gave up and forced himself to endure it while he got the boy out of the torture chamber. He held the door open and tried to think of something to say. He looked at the young man with the lantern, still staring confusedly at him, but standing straight and tall. He could feel his own terrible posture and forced himself to stand erect. At last he said, "I think you have gone rather further than needed for character study." Again, he was taken aback. His own voice had grown raspy from disuse.

The boy broke into a wide grin as he recognized the voice of the silhouette whose face he still could not see. "Monsieur Director!" Anton managed. Apparently he had forgotten the name Erik had given him the day he first introduced himself. It was just as well. Erik couldn't remember what name he'd given. "What are you doing down here?"

Insolent boy! What was _he_ doing down here? He dared to ask _him_? Ah, but it wouldn't do to admit he _lived_ here. "It is a question I should be asking you," Erik told him.

"Oh." The boy looked around sheepishly. "I am terribly sorry." He moved toward the door and Erik stepped aside to allow him to pass into the Louis-Philippe room. "I became curious. I should not have come here."

Erik narrowed his eyes at the boy's back as Anton stood gazing about the Louis-Philippe room. There had to be at least a hundred intimidating responses to that last, and Erik could think of not a single one. He scratched at his forehead, his nails connecting only with rubber and not with the terrible feeling beneath. Damn. This mask, and now this boy.

"This is spectacular!" Anton was saying. And then he touched a piece of the furniture and found that it was solid. He tugged open a drawer and hastily slammed it shut again when he saw that it was not empty. He pushed on the mattress of the bed. "Why is this real furniture?" he dared to ask, pointing at the dresser.

Erik ignored him, turned his back and started toward the small dining room. Anton followed curiously touching everything as he went. Erik could clearly see in his mind's eye the image of himself turning suddenly and catching Anton's offending hand that dared to come into contact with all his many treasures—or what was left of them after his last rage—in his bony hand and squeezing it until the boy fell to the ground begging for mercy. But instead he bowed his head and sighed again. He couldn't kill him that was certain. He couldn't harm and threaten him dressed in this mask, for that would send people after him, this new version of him, and he would have to resort to being himself again, which was hardly an option. He would take him across in the boat and send him above. Yes, it was a very elaborate set indeed. The boy would never know the difference. _But the boy would talk to Christine_. His mind flailed in the dark recesses of itself, reaching out for something to grab hold of and slipping—and then he hit upon it. He led Anton to the dining room and asked him to wait. He returned with a bottle of wine. Anton would be so inebriated when he returned that even Christine would doubt he had found the house on the lake and would conclude that he had simply dreamed he had.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews:** Okay, is that just totally _**wrong**_ or what? Anton just admires the handiwork and gets himself right out! Those crafty Russians! (Special thanks to Rappleyea for the idea!) Please, please comment?


	89. Chapter 89: Inebriated

**Author's Note:** Good morning everybody! I'm trying SO hard not to obsess about reviews, but that's not my strong point. A goodish number of my readers are on vacation and business trips as well, so I'm going to go ahead and keep posting with (more or less) a disregard for reviews and hope it all comes out in the end. On a positive note, I was really excited to hit 700 yesterday. (Then I got stuck at 701 for 12 hours and it took the edge of my glee... but hey, FFN, like the rest of life, has it's ups and downs, right?)

**Standard Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is Leroux-based even the Persian. Ignore the fact that we're calling him Nadir. That was just to avoid confusion, and he's not in this chapter anyway. Oh yeah... and there are some places where the musical crept it. It was accidental. I'll go back and edit it out later. Feel free to call my attention to it in case there is one I missed.

**Review Award:** All reviews are wonderful, all the time, but the two that really stood out last chapter came from anonymous and Mominator. Anonymous: "Solid" and "emotionally engaging" made my night. Honestly. I could die happy now. Speechless was just icing on the proverbial cake. Mominator, I already addressed this in an email, but keep calling the little incongruities to my attention. It helps me fix them. (For the record, everyone, I need to go back and make it clear that when Erik walled himself in, the entrance to the torture chamber was PAST the gate, so it didn't actually need to be bricked over if the gate was always locked. And besides--Erik consoled himself that if anyone WERE to somehow defeat the gate, in the torture chamber is where he'd want such a person to end up anyway. Of course, that changes later, once he actually experiences it for himself. But then, he and Nadir keep forgetting to disassemble it, hence we have our current situation. Ta Dah! If that's not close enough to believable (excepting the fact that Leroux gave us a guy underground with a torture chamber in his house anyway isn't very believable...) let me know so I can try again to fix it. Thanks!)

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Was it the third glass, or the fourth? Erik frowned. It was the last of the second bottle, so it was the eighth glass, but had they _each had four_? No. Surely Anton had had more, and Erik far less. Erik had used painstaking care to ensure that he poured more generously into Anton's glass than his own. He sipped his wine carefully—doubly carefully, for he needed to ensure not only that he drank far less than Anton but also that he managed the glass properly with those fake rubber lips that were so foreign to him yet.

He was diligent about spending more time swirling his wine in its glass and gazing at its lovely color than actually drinking it. He felt warmer, though, and the terrible skin-crawling feeling beneath the mask had gone away at last. He sighed to himself in relief. Now, at least he knew how to make it stop when it happened again in the future. When had it started? Yesterday? The day before? It was hard to tell, for time was all the same in the coffin, where he'd spent most of his time since he'd parted from Nadir in the office, but it had been going on a long time and it was a great relief to have it stop at last.

Anton was actually not bad company, he thought idly, listening to the boy talk. Not that he'd wanted company! But if he had... Anton was telling him about his long journey from Russia to France now and Erik was wondering what Anton would think if he knew anything of his own travels. Then again, the travels weren't the really interesting part of his story. It was what happened whenever he stopped and stayed in one place at length that interesting things always happened. The story led all the way up to "And this is how I came to here." At this natural break in conversation Erik excused himself to get another bottle. Anton protested for only a moment. It wasn't necessary, he said. The director had been kind enough already and there was no need... Well, all right, if he insisted. It didn't take much to talk the boy into anything. He was so eager to please! Why was he so damnably cordial?

"This is quite a place you have here, Monsieur," Anton commented when Erik returned, and Erik froze. Had he fully made the connection that he lived here? Was he now wondering why? Would he ask? Erik had hoped to get him to a point of intoxication rather faster than this so he wouldn't have to answer any questions. This could be very bad.

"It is a brilliant idea, actually," Anton continued, "to have a retreat to which you can go to get away from everything and still be close enough like this! A place where no one would look for you. Surely I wouldn't have thought to look for the director on the fourth level beneath—"

"Fifth," Erik corrected him without thinking. _Why was he giving the boy information?_

Anton frowned again. "It should be the fourth," he said. "I was on the third level..." He paused and counted aloud in Russian and on his fingers. "Yes, I am certain I was on the third level. And I dropped straight through, down one level..."

I think I know where we are, Erik thought angrily. To Anton he simply said "It is difficult to explain it."

Anton accepted this with a shrug and started talking again. He was full of both comments and questions, but the questions were not anything dangerous, and he seemed especially adept at filling up the space when Erik declined to play the conversationalist. Now, if only he would spend less time talking and more time drinking... Erik felt annoyed and distracted himself by actually drinking some of the wine in his glass.

A moment later they were discussing _Don Juan Triumphant_. Anton must have initiated that gem of conversation because Erik was certain he hadn't deigned to bring it up himself. Anton was confused about having been encouraged to visit the upper portion of the cellars in the first place. There didn't seem to be any cellars in the opera, so why...

Erik wanted the boy to leave. He was tired, and he wanted the boy to leave. But there was no way to manage that. It was with great sorrow that he realized that he was trapped for some time. It had been his plan to get the boy drunk, perhaps even passed out, and then take him above. The boy was holding his wine quite well, however, and he himself felt that he would be rather unable to row the boat. This was very bad.

Erik refilled his own glass and stared into it while Anton continued to ramble. He was talking about masks, now, and how terribly difficult it had been to wear them continuously. Masks. Erik shuddered and downed his entire glass. Masks were the last thing he wanted to discuss. Well, maybe the second to the last. He could think of at least one other thing he did not want to talk about. Maybe two. In reality there was quite a list, but masks were definitely on that list, and he did not want to discuss them. He poured himself another glass. Oh forget it, he thought. The plan has already failed. Anton was still coherent, apparently, but was feeling the wine just barely enough to have forgotten the look in the director's eyes when he'd dared to complain about his mask once before. Suddenly, though, he was thanking Erik and asked him if he was he who wrote him the note allowing him to rehearse unmasked.

Erik was caught off-guard. He stammered and was embarrassed by it, thus causing it to happen again. At last he found the words to respond. "I did not write it, no. But I caused it to be written." He should have just said yes he'd written it. Why did he feel so inclined to tell the truth in its entirety all a sudden? He excused himself again. This time when he returned, he carried two bottles. No sense walking all that way so many times, he'd decided.

Anton had been thinking that the response about the note was a bit strange, but as soon as the director returned he thanked him profusely. He had "caused it to be written." That likely meant it was his decision. He'd simply not had time to spend writing notes with all his many other duties. But surely he of all people, as the composer of the piece _and_ the writer of the libretto, understood how important it was to be able to look good for the end of _act five_. He thought to show the director exactly why the decision had been necessary, so as not to seem like he had been complaining about nothing. He'd endured it quite a good deal longer than he suspected most others would have, and he wanted to impress upon the director that he was not the type to complain needlessly. After all, he wanted to stay with the company indefinitely if that were possible.

He was leaning forward across the table and in a most inappropriate manner (Ah, the wine is working at last, thought Erik!) showing Erik the numerous sores the masks had caused. He produced a tube from his pocket, named a dancer and said she was sent from heaven. For a moment Erik panicked that Anton was in love with the dancer and wondered how that would affect what had appeared to be going on with Anton and Christine. If Christine were not provided for... No, but he couldn't think on her now. No, it would be a mistake to do so. But at last he realized the boy was merely speaking of a remedy, which the kind dancer had provided, for the abrasions from the mask. Ah. So much better.

"You see," Anton was saying, indicating the worst of these terrible blemishes, a large abrasion on his left cheek. "I am so thankful you stopped it when you did," he continued "because I was afraid it was going to get infected. I was actually about to ask for a few days off to see if it could heal some. You should have seen it. It was really awful..."

He kept talking, but Erik wasn't listening anymore. He was suddenly seized with the irresistible urge to do something that would be terrible for them both. His heart pounded in anticipation of it. He poured himself a glass from a newly opened bottle, drained it quickly, and waited for the terrible impulse to go away. It didn't.

He felt himself get to his feet and a part of his mind screamed at him to stop, but he didn't. When Anton finished speaking, Erik heard his own voice, though slightly raspy still from disuse and now slurred from the wine as well, saying, in reference to Anton's blistered skin, "You think _that_ is terrible, do you?"

Looking up at Erik standing over him must have jolted the boy's memory bringing to mind their quiet confrontation on stage because his eyes changed suddenly. "No, Monsieur. I did not say it was terrible. I was just making conversation, that is all."

Erik felt the rubber stretch over his lips as he smiled. "Just making conversation," he repeated. "You like to make conversation, do you?"

Anton was confused. "Does not everyone like to make conversation?" he said with a laugh. "I mean, yes, I do, monsieur. When appropriate. Perhaps—"

"Then I shall give you something to have a conversation about," Erik said carefully. He had to raise his voice to hear himself over the dullness of his senses and the horrendous pounding of his heart. "Oh, and what a conversation it will be!" he chuckled aloud. What was he thinking? "The likes of which you have surely never had before." He was entirely out of control now, he was certain of it. The one clear part of his mind watched helplessly as the rest of it fled leaving him to operate on emotions and instincts.

"Yes, Monsieur," Anton managed. He was utterly confused. Alas, the wine hadn't sharpened _his_ intellect any either.

Erik carried the wine bottle and his glass with him in one hand, the neck of the bottle between his first two fingers and his thumb wrapped around the stem of the glass. He'd bring it back, surely. He would just probably need it while he was gone, that was all. He left the dining room, carefully running his free hand along the wall as he made his way back to his room and his mirror. He stared at the rubber mask in the mirror. _Do not do this_, he told himself.

With his nails, he scraped loose the edge at his hairline. Then he pulled at it until it ripped lose from his forehead with a terrible sound. He sucked in his breath and put one hand over the tender spot until the pain subsided. Then he held his breath and pulled downward. He moaned softly as it released itself from the sensitive skin around his eyes. He was halfway there. He kept his eyes closed, grasped the loose flap and with a sudden downward motion tore the whole thing off at once. He could not restrain a yelp of pain as he did so and he clapped one hand over his own mouth in horror. Then he opened his eyes. Oh _God_.

If he had been ugly before, he was hideous now. But he had _already been_ hideous. Now he was... revolting? Repulsive? Gruesome? _There were not words strong enough_. Tears stung his eyes and he wiped them away, surprised to find that now both his tears and his own touch burned his skin. He detached the false nose and cast it to the top of the organ. Then he forced himself to smile at his reflection, poured himself another glass of wine, toasted his reflection, drained the glass in a single draught and poured again. He staggered back to the dining room, still grinning that terrible grin.

Anton was watching the space from which he had departed, eager for his host's return, so he was not caught entirely by surprise by Erik's entrance. Not _entirely_. Also fortunate was the fact that his vision had blurred some from his heavy consumption of Erik's exquisite wine. He saw the director coming back, tall and thin in that same black coat he always wore. In one hand he held a half full glass of wine (for Erik could not resist the urge to continue drinking as he exited his room) and the other was wrapped around the neck of the bottle. He walked slowly down the short hallway with a swagger to his hips that Anton hadn't noticed before. Anton looked up for the expression on his face and—

At first he could neither move nor speak. He was fixed to his spot and he was thankful that he was sitting. His mouth drifted open and his hand, which had been holding his own wine glass, drifted downward until it was resting on his knee, a bit of wine sloshing out in the process.

The director reached the table, set the bottle down, sloppily drained the last of his wine and commenced pouring still one more to empty the bottle. Anton's head felt heavy and he put one hand over the top of his glass to indicate no when the director lifted another bottle toward him. What he was staring at had to be the most horrible, most terrifying, most _bloodcurdling_ thing on earth. He muttered something in Russian—a word that Erik did not recognize.

Erik lifted his wine glass to his lips and sipped awkwardly, waiting for the rest of boy's reaction—the part where he would try to leap up and find himself too intoxicated to coordinate his movements. He would try to run, fall, and there would be a comical vision of him trying to scrabble away on all fours, going in the wrong direction and ending up in Erik's room. Then there would be his terrible screams as looked about, realized the monster was in the doorway and there was no other passage out. Preferably, he would faint and then Erik would carry him above and carefully arrange him in his dressing room with several bottles and his glass so that he would awake from a drunken stupor having had a nightmare to put his childhood fears to shame. He would tell Christine, perhaps, and she would remember her fears. Perhaps they would run away together. It would ruin the production, but Erik was no longer particularly interested in any production. No opera meant he could have the place to himself again. No longer would he have to endure the suffering it took to pretend to be like everyone else. Still, it would be best if he did not remember it at all, which might be a possibility, had he drunk enough.

Still holding his glass, Erik deftly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand where the wine trickled out between his piteous excuses for lips. This happened frequently if he tried to sip delicately. Strangely, it was this thought that threatened to send him back to tears, but he ignored it and tossed down the rest of the wine without his lips touching the glass. He set his glass on the table and put a bony hand on top of it gripping the edges. He met the boy's gaze directly... and waited.

"Forgive me," the boy managed at last in an astonished gasp. "That... is..."

Erik closed his eyes. _Here it comes_, he thought with something like dread.

"Exquisite," Anton breathed.

Erik's eyes snapped open. "Exquisite," he repeated, slurring the syllables into a sorry mess of a word, but Anton understood that he had repeated him and nodded enthusiastically.

"Genius!" Anton muttered, first in Russian, then in French. "You are aware that you are an absolute genius, are you not?"

Erik shrugged. "Perhaps," he managed. _What had that to do with his face?_

Anton got to his feet carefully and stepped around the chair that separated them. "Please," he said softly. "If you'll permit me?" He leaned closer to get a better look, shaking his head in admiration, then he sank into the chair, a look of impressed admiration on his face. "Is there anything you do not do?" he asked at last.

Overcome, Erik sunk into his own chair as well. He had no idea what this conversation was about, but perhaps he had only fantasized taking off his mask. "I do not," he replied, "go out much." It was an honest answer. _Why was he giving this boy honest answers?_ Why was the boy here at all?

"I can imagine," Anton said. "You are so terribly busy. Did you know everyone was worried about you this week? I am sure not the other managers. I mean, certainly you and they had some arrangement. But the cast. Lord! And the crew, my! The dancers, Monsieur, the dancers miss you terribly." He gave the director a winning smile that had just a hint of a suggestive look. Surely the director had noticed the dancers' interest in him. No doubt a man like him had taken advantage of the interests of dancers before, but Anton wasn't judging, simply speculating. He lifted his eyebrows and made a face that suggested what some of the dancers might want to do with the director when he returned to show how much they'd missed him.

Erik stared. The boy was insane. It was that simple. He could have left him in the torture chamber unharmed, for what would drive a sane man crazy would likely drive a crazy man sane. He must make arrangements to put that theory to the test. He would put Anton back in there just as soon as possible...

"Women are funny that way, though, are they not? They seem to think that everyone needs to be married—or at least have some type of regular arrangement—right away, that a person can't be happy alone, you know? I mean, take yourself, for example. You could not possibly have time for a wife. She would just keep you from all the things you enjoy, do you not think? Well, of course you do, for otherwise you would be married by now." He paused. "I _am_ sorry. It is inappropriate. Dear God, forgive me." He covered his face. "Perhaps you are. How should I know. Oh! I hope you are not a widower. I would have much offended you."

The boy was suddenly mortified. "You have clearly given me far too much of that," he said, pointing to one of the many empty wine bottles that littered the tabletop. "I don't know any limits for myself, I'm afraid. In the future, you'll have to set them for me." He drew a deep breath. "Sorry. Terribly sorry. All right then. What I meant to say is simply that I am very impressed." Here he cracked up laughing, in spite of the truth of the statement. He struggled to regain control of himself. Erik noted the wine had most definitely taken affect--only _too late_.

"Somehow you find the time to compose, to write, to direct..." Anton continued through his giggles. "...but to spend time on costumes and make up as well? I don't know where you find the time," he finished at last, breathless with both admiration and laughter.

Erik laughed as well and was surprised to find it hurt him terribly. He wrapped his arms around his ribs. The boy mistook his face for another one of his gruesome masks. Oh, how appropriate. It explained the lack of screaming, the use of the word exquisite. Yes, if he'd managed to create something this terrible it would have demonstrated incredible craftsmanship! But the problem still remained—how to get the boy out of here with a guarantee that he would tell no one.

It would have been easier if he'd been terrified, Erik thought sadly, suddenly recovered from finding anything funny. He leaned his elbows on the table and put his head upon his hands. The open bottle was empty. It was time to go and get another. He would. In a moment. Quite soon. Ah yes. Here was another, still full. He set to opening it.

He looked across at the boy again. He was dreadfully blurry. There were almost two of him. _God,_ he thought, _please don't let me have enough to make there two of them_. At that thought, he declined to pour again into his own glass and reset the bottle on the table

"So," he managed at last. "It impresses you, does it?

Anton nodded enthusiastically. "Very much so." Then, in curiosity, he leaned forward again. "_May_ I?" he asked and he stood and moved closer again, sat down in the vacant chair that had previously been between them. Erik tensed as the boy came still closer than he had before, hands lifted almost touching him, face mere inches away. And then he did touch him. He lightly pinched a bit of skin gently between his finger and thumb. He laughed at the realism of it, then drew in his breath. Then his face changed, and he withdrew his hand quickly and leaned back in the chair. He had noticed a somewhat familiar but very bad odor. His eyebrows drew together. "I think you should take your mask off now," he suggested worriedly.

"Why, my dear boy?" Erik asked him sarcastically. "It is too hideous? Does it bother you?"

"N-No," Anton stammered. "It does not bother me at all. It is beautiful, but—"

"But?" Erik waited. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"_I am more concerned about what it might do to what lies beneath it_," he said at last. "Remember?" He held his hands up, palms outward by the sides of his own face. "You do not want to end up like this, do you?"

Erik let out another bitter laugh. "You could not possibly imagine," he responded in a tone that he'd intended to be insulting but instead came out sounding rather sad.

Anton's heart pounded. He was slowly beginning to suspect something terrible. But it couldn't be. It couldn't be because the director's regular face didn't appear marred at all! And yet, he was certain. But to have to tell him... It was most uncomfortable. He glanced at the array of bottles and glasses. Some wine remained in his own glass. He downed it in a single gulp, waited for the warm feeling to course through him, then pointed at Erik. "I am afraid you must have some terrible infection or sorts," he said at last.

Erik's heart resumed the steady pounding it had when he had first removed the mask. "What? Now you are a physician, too?" he said insultingly.

"No," Anton managed, dejectedly, looking away. "Actually, I should have been, if I had done as I was told," he said disgustedly. "My father is." Then his voice turned bitter and sarcastic. "You can imagine how proud of me he is." He threw his arms wide. "The Opera!" he cried out in a grand voice. "Ha. He says I'm throwing away my life."

Erik's mind was scarcely keeping up. "I think music is rather a noble pursuit," he commented. Lunacy. This was absolute lunacy. Nothing about this conversation made sense!

"Music is..." Anton rolled his eyes about the room as he searched for a word that conveyed his feelings. He held out his hands in a gesture that encompassed the universe and at last settled on a French phrase that meant "...everything" but also meant "the world." He uttered it with his eyes bright.

Erik regarded him in sadness. Oh, if only _that_ were true! "Not quite everything," he said in return "but I assure you I do know what you mean."

Anton's moment of glory was over. He was back to drunken anger. "Yes, well, my father doesn't," he said, biting off the words viciously. "He expects me to do what he does, whether I like it or not, whether I would have been good at it or not, just because..." He trailed off clenching his fists in frustration.

"I think it would be far better for you to be a gifted singer than a mediocre physician," Erik mused, "for the former is hardly a danger to the lives of others, while the latter..." he shrugged to show one could never be sure what would happen.

"That's what _I_ told him," Anton said angrily. Then he mellowed suddenly. "Actually," he said, drawing the word out into its individual syllables, and pointing upward with the first finger of one hand while his accent became more pronounced with his intoxication "it is perhaps not exactly what I told him." He rolled his eyes upward to Erik's ceiling while translating in his head. "What I told him was more like 'What do you know, you stupid old man?' Yes, that is what I said to my father." Now he pointed at Erik, thrusting his finger closer to him to emphasize each word. "It was the last thing I said to him, actually." He repeated the gesture. "I did not even say goodbye."

"I did not say goodbye either," Erik remembered aloud. Then he shook himself back to reality, to the boy's story, to the fact that the boy had a normal life with perhaps what was a normal father. "Even so," he said, "one is fortunate to have a father. One probably should make amends while there is yet time."

Anton scoffed. "I have six brothers. Surely he shall find one of them of whom he can be proud," he said with decision.

"I was the only one," Erik said softly. "You can imagine their bitter disappointment."

"Hardly," Anton grumbled under his breath. "I can't see how they have anything at all to be disappointed about in the least."

Oh? Didn't they? What a strange boy._ Oh._ He still did not realize it then. He'd been so sure he'd figured it out when he touched the skin. "Well, no matter," he said bitterly. "_They were._"

"Anyway," Anton said, suddenly returning to his usual bright demeanor, "you really need _do_ take that thing off. There is _something_ wrong with it for certain. Do you not notice that terrible odor? If I didn't know better, I would say the skin beneath is infected. But perhaps it is the mask. Perhaps something... Let's get a look at the inside of it anyway, to be certain. Please monsieur. For your own good. Take it off."

Erik considered this for a moment. His mind was still blurry with the many, many glasses of wine had consumed. He regarded Anton sitting calmly in his chair. He addressed him simply. "Alas," he said. "This I _cannot_ take off."

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**Trademark Shameless Begging:** My huge cheesy grin says it all, doesn't it? Nah. It doesn't, so I'll say it aloud. There's not much I wouldn't do for a review. There are few things, but there's not much!! This chapter was a TON of fun but also a HUGE amount of effort, so anything you have to say will be greatly appreciated. (And it's my LONGEST one yet, too... Twice as long as some I've written, so consider THAT too!)


	90. Chapter 90: Denied

**Author's Note:** Oh, I give up waiting around!! Here's the chapter! If I did this right, first you will laugh and then you will cry.

**Standard Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian, who doesn't appear in this chapter anyway.

* * *

Anton laughed aloud. "What is it then? Stuck is it?"

Erik was not amused. Part of him wished the rest of him would shut his mouth and accept the fact that the boy, while not as inebriated as he had hoped he would be, was far too intoxicated to understand the levity of what he had just been told. Send him above. Fine. So the world knows that the director keeps a secret hideaway in the basement. Yes, in the _fourth_ basement. So what? Who cares? Can a man not have a little place to go when he needs a break from his work? It was not so incredibly hard to imagine, was it? It was time to send the boy above with instructions not to talk to anyone about this. If he talked, the repercussions could be dealt with then with a few clever lies. Likely no one would truly believe him except the Persian and Christine, and they already knew he was here. If Anton repeated what he'd learned to Christine, she would surely know the truth, but she already knew the truth and apparently had told no one or no one had believed her. Besides, not even Christine would believe that Erik had sat and had a conversation with Anton as he had. She would think he'd imagined it all. So what was Erik hiding from?

Nothing apparently, because he was stupidly revealing all of his secrets to this foreign-born pretty-faced fop. Yes, that's right. He was revealing everything, for he had just heard himself say, "No, it is not _stuck_. It is _my face_." The fact that the boy had not understood—several times, in fact—was probably a sign, but Erik had gotten himself into such a state that he could not heed such warnings. Exactly how much had he consumed, he wondered, remembering the moment that he had stopped keeping careful count and gazing in amazement at the number of empty bottles standing before him. How badly was he going to regret this later?

Anton stared at him for a moment in shock, then fate gave Erik one last chance to be certain he wanted to reveal this much as Anton burst into raucous laughter, struggling and gasping for breath. When he recovered, he said hoarsely, "Oh, Monsieur, you have quite a sense of humor." He drew a breath that sounded like a wheeze and let it out again with a guffaw and these words: "I almost believed you that time!" He put a hand over his mouth and continued to shake a bit as though he were still laughing on the inside.

It called up something like anger in Erik. He was used to being hated. He was used to being mistreated and abused. He was used to being feared, dreaded and loathed. It was not as common, but he had experience with pity and a few other softer emotions and some kind tender moments as a result of them. But he had never in _all his life_ been _laughed at_. He rose and strode angrily back to his room and picked up the lifeless face of the composer and director. He held it between one finger and his thumb, at a distance like a vile thing, and he carried it that way back to Anton who was chuckling into the back of his hand once again, but stopped abruptly. _Very_ abruptly. And _stared_. He appeared entirely sober all a sudden. "What is the matter now?" Erik asked him in the cruelest voice he could manage.

Anton stared at the thing in his hand and the thing on his shoulders. His eyes were wide, but he made no move. "It isn't possible," Anton murmured in absolute disbelief.

Erik threw the mask down on the table and stalked away. The boy was base and slow when sober and far worse when deprived of his senses. To further exacerbate Erik's frustration, he was apparently impossible to frighten, though not due to some exaggerated bravery but merely because he was too dull to realize he had anything _to_ fear. He was entirely un-entertaining. The evening couldn't possibly get much worse.

Erik threw himself into a wing-backed chair. He was still hideous. It seemed to be the only constant. He was apparently no longer terrifying. That was dangerous. Frightening people away was necessary at times for the sake of safety. It was a hindrance to be sure if one ever wished for companionship, but it was also very convenient at times. Now he would be deprived of that, too? By what means would he protect himself when they found him then? Oh no, things could not possibly get worse than this. Except that they would when that boy went above. He obviously was scarcely affected by the large amounts of alcohol, so Erik's plan to discredit any memory Anton might have of this night would fail. He'd likely have a clear memory of this. _All of this._

Oh, why couldn't Erik have sent him above while he was still laughing in disbelief? Better still. Why couldn't Erik have kept his mouth shut and his mask on? Because Erik has entirely lost his mind! It was the only thing that consoled him in the least—the chance that perhaps he really had lost his mind days ago and none of this was happening at all. Yes, none of this is happening. The boy is not even here. Erik shall wake safe in his coffin with his mask on his face and no one around.

No. He could not be that fortunate.

"Monsieur?" Anton was standing before him, two wine glasses in one hand with the stems delicately between his fingers the way the director had done and his other hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle the director had opened but neglected to pour. He held out his glass to him and smiled. The other glowered but took the glass, tentatively. Anton poured him a full glass, poured a small amount for himself, and hovered for a moment. "I wondered if you might have anything stronger, Monsieur?" he said softly, looking at the floor.

"Oh, the wine doesn't dull your sense of sight quite enough, I presume," Erik said bitterly, and Anton shook his head.

"Oh, not to drink, Monsieur. Not to drink." His voice was gentle.

Erik preferred not to consider what else the boy might be planning to do with it, but an idea came to mind anyway. Light the place on fire? It would take far more than that, for the walls were stone. Pity the powder kegs below had been flooded that evening with the daroga and the Vicomte de Chagny. He leaned back and closed his eyes, then directed Anton to a small cabinet in the kitchen. He didn't really care what Anton did with what he would find there.

When Anton returned he found the director's glass empty once again but still grasped in his bony hand. He appeared not to have heard him enter, so he stood and studied the man for a moment. It was the same man from above. He was no different now with the terrible face than he had been a few hours ago when he opened the door and let him out of the strange mirrored set piece or a week ago when he had stood over him on stage as he complained bitterly about his mask. And now his words from that day made sense at last._ You have absolutely no idea, but you are beginning to learn._ It was true. Anton had experienced the irritation and discomfort for mere weeks. Oh, what that man must have lived through!

_At the moment you have no idea what a great honor I have done you, but perhaps someday you will._ Oh yes. It was becoming clear to him now, though the greater honor by far had been this visit, this conversation, this absolute confidence. Why me? Anton wondered. What is so special about me that he would choose me?

He looked carefully at the hands of the director. Christine had asked about his hands before, and he had noticed them once. Yes, they _were_ long and thin and bony. _Like death_, he'd thought before, but now he was ashamed that the thought had entered his mind. What a terrible thing to think. What a terrible thing _to say!_ He let his eyes stray back to the man's face. It was not an attractive face, no, but there was nothing at all terrible about him from this angle as he sat staring down into his empty glass, that expression of utter sorrow on his bony features.

Yes, it was the same man he knew from above. He was no different from the day he'd shouted at Christine on stage. Anton had thought him quite terrible that day, but all people are terrible at times. He remembered Christine's words as she lay on the floor off stage. _He is without blame, Anton! You'll not say another word against him... if you are not a fool you will do everything he says and never question him!_ Ah, how it all came together now. Christine has seen this. Feels the need to protect him.

Suddenly everything—_everything_—made sense, especially _Don Juan Triumphant_. His role... _Oh._ _That_ is the great honor. Anton reflected on his own words. He had been saying for weeks that it was such a great honor to play such a role in such an opera, but he had not understood his own words until now. It was something one said, a _duty_, something along the lines of pleased to meet you. It was something one said whether one was pleased or not. He understood the honor now, and it made all his former words seem shallow. He stood in absolute awe of the man who sat before him in the ornate wing-backed chair, staring downward as though oblivious to the world, including the boy who stood right beside him, almost holding his breath in an effort not to disturb him. But he couldn't stand here like this all night.

He stepped forward. The motion caught the man's eye and he looked up. Anton refilled his glass, occupied the matching wing-backed chair opposite and tried to resume the conversation they'd been having before all had been revealed. Erik looked at him in wonder. He is supposed to run off screaming. Or draw a weapon and try to kill me. _This_ is unexpected. But then, the boy _is_ drunk. _And so is Erik_.

When the director did not respond to his attempts at conversation. Anton was confused. If he didn't want me to see him, he wondered, why did he show me? And if he _did_ want me to know, then why is he so upset? The whole thing made no sense at all, but it made him think of Christine. Why was he thinking of Christine now? Only because she was beautiful, talented, and his only friend? He thought of her often, it was true... But he remembered the urgency in her eyes as she grasped the lapels of his jacket. How did he look? What did his hands feel like? Are they cold? Too thin? Bony? Alas. They are.

After several uncomfortable attempts at changing the subject, Anton addressed directly what he suspected might be the problem.

"Monsieur, I hope I didn't say anything terribly debasing when I thought I was looking at a mask," he said sincerely.

Erik allowed his eyes to move upward to the boy's face. It was, perhaps, the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. He shook his head sadly. "No..." he said softly and looked away. Then he sighed. "Except the part about not having a wife." His voice was wistful.

The boy cursed in Russian and put his head down for a moment. His shoulder-length hair was parted down the middle and fell into his face each time he inclined his head, then fell away again as he sat up. "I am truly sorry about that," he began in a voice that sounded as though he were the one in pain. "I often do not think before I speak." He sipped at his wine then lifted the glass to indicate he was speaking about its contents. "_This_ doesn't help."

Erik managed to lift one side of his mouth in a sad grin.

Anton looked at the floor again briefly and then back up to try to meet the man's eyes. "Of course, I still think you are rather too busy for one."

Erik's wine was gone. He reached for the bottle and Anton passed it to him, holding it by the neck. Their hands touched briefly and Anton noted their coolness but could not bring himself to shiver with revulsion. He thought instead it would be an honor to shake that hand again. Pouring, the director sighed. "I could easily forgo it all and not even consider it a sacrifice for one," he said quite seriously.

"Then why don't you?"

The man gestured. Wasn't it obvious?

Anton hesitated, then proceeded honestly. "Yes, I understand what you mean, but still, that shouldn't matter, should it?" He smiled for an instant with a flash of straight white teeth. Then he was serious again. "It didn't matter at the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_."

What a sad expression he wore as he said, "_Don Juan_ is only an opera," he said, "and there was a bit of magic involved." His tone was flat and lifeless.

"I guess you are right," Anton said as lightheartedly as he could manage under the oppressive air of the room. They were still imbibing the wine, but the lighthearted conversation of earlier could not be regained. "They are all so _shallow_, are they not?"

His voice was profound. "It would not be right to ask one not to be in this case."

"And yet, I think maybe they are not _all_ that shallow. Take this for example," he said, indicating the mess of sores that were still apparent even after several days of open air and the remedy lent to him by the dancer. "I know this girl... I didn't want her to see me like this, and when she did, instead of being repulsed she tried to help."

"Quite a catch," Erik commented wryly. "Who is she?"

"Why, you know her, too, Monsieur! It was Christine Daaé. You know her. She sings Eva."

Oh, the irony! "Take care that it doesn't get any worse," Erik advised sagely. "You wouldn't want to test to see how far Mademoiselle Daaé's tolerance goes."

"Oh, I think she is genuine," Anton responded quickly in her defense. "There is no one else like her in the world."

"No," Erik mused sadly. "There certainly isn't."

And Anton looked at him carefully. Was that regret? Then it must be... and he uttered her invocation: "Erik."

Erik's eyes flitted to him unsteadily.

"It is _you_, is it not? The secret one whose name must never be spoken, the one she looks for each time she gets a moment's break, the one she cried out to in the amphitheatre that day? It _is_ you, is it not?"

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Disappointed?"

"Why would I be?"

Erik shrugged. He was still very much feeling the influence of the wine. Perhaps more so than on any other occasion he could recall. He was lost deep in thought for several moments. At last, without looking at the boy he softly asked, "Why did you not run off or strike me or say terrible things?"

Anton's eyes got wide. "You are the director," he said simply with a shrug, and when it did not appear to be enough he added, "The role is an honor. I am pleased to play it." The other was still not impressed. "I need the work, and besides," he said, "it is not as though I can run home to Father." He smiled to show he was teasing. Then his smile fell suddenly and he looked away. "Truly, is that what people do?"

"Some," was the toneless reply.

Anton looked up but the director was looking away. He stared at him until the intensity of his gaze forced the other to glance in his direction. He met his eyes. "_I am so sorry_," he said. He meant it. One had only to hear him to have no doubt.

Erik wished he were alone again, for he had spent nearly a week with a knot of ugliness inside him that would not fade and which he could not release. All the nights he had spent crying throughout his life he had cursed his tears and wished for them never to fall again, but suddenly this week he had been unable to cry, unable to purge himself of the darkness that ate away at his soul and now, at last, hearing those four words he was certain he could weep again. But it was too much in front of the boy. As kind as he was, he was still _who_ he was, and there was no changing that. But he was _sorry_. He was _so_ sorry. Erik closed his eyes. _Someone was sorry_. He could _almost cry now_.

Anton shifted uncomfortably in his chair and changed the subject. "Why did you give me permission to stop wearing them?" The topic was obvious. Masks.

This was easy to answer. It gave Erik the chance to be unemotional again. "You have seen what it does to the skin."

"Then why did you keep wearing yours?"

"We obviously have different reasons for wearing them. Mine does actually cover something, does it not?"

"Yes, but... You have not been around all week. If you were down here all that time you surely did not need it."

Erik sighed. "Let us say I was not so worried about myself as I was about you."

Anton made a frustrated noise and waved his hands between both their faces. "Why not?" he cried out.

Erik gave him a hideous grin and said, "Let us just say that you had more to preserve than I did. There is not much one could do to make this worse." It wasn't true. It wasn't true at all, because he did look far worse. But it was his official position that he did not care about his appearance for his own sake. Only superficial so-called humanity out in the world cared about such shallow means as a face.

Anton's eyes were sober, even if the rest of him was the antithesis of the word. "There is plenty one could do to make it worse. And you _have_. Go look for yourself if you do not believe me, but I am certain that the tissue is beginning to rot."

Erik was seized with panic when he heard that word. It was one thing to _look_ like a living corpse. It was quite another to actually, _literally_ rot like one. The terror must have shown on his face because Anton pulled from his pocket the tube he had acquired from the dancer who was sent from heaven. "This helped me," he said handing it to Erik, who looked at the tube with concern. There wasn't very much left at all, it seemed. "I can get you more," he continued. Now the boy reads minds, too? "And uh..." He lifted the bottle of rum he'd found in Erik's kitchen cabinet and looked at it skeptically. "I do not know if this will do..." he said. "I was going to suggest you clean those sores out with vodka but you do not seem to have any here. I could try to acquire some for you..."

The clock in the parlor struck loudly and both men jumped. Erik forced a kind smile at the younger man. "It is not necessary," he said softly. "It _is_ necessary that you go back. It is midnight. You will be looked for."

Anton nodded.

"A year ago," Erik told him in a confidential tone, "This conversation would not have happened. You would have been dead when you reached my door. If you had managed to survive, I would have prevented you from leaving, and if it were absolutely necessary to send you back, I'd have threatened you with loss of all you love if you dared breath a word of me to anyone."

Anton nodded, though he had a hard time believing Erik could do anything cruel. He was kind and sad; he didn't seem dangerous. He was merely talking. It was certainly hyperbole to make his point. Anton nodded to show he was listening.

"It is not a year ago. Things have changed. You are free to go. But I am asking you," he met the man's eyes, "I am... dare I say? begging you... Tell no one of this visit, least of all Christine Daaé. Please. Never speak to her of me at all."

Anton meant to decline as regarded Christine, but then he looked in the man's eyes. They were so clear, so honest and so full of pain. What history he could possibly have with Christine was a mystery wrapped in an enigma to Anton, but he promised, swearing on all he held sacred.

At last Erik told him of the boat and the path to take to return to the Opera, and Anton left, still feeling warm and numb from the wine.

Erik picked up the bottle of rum from the floor where Anton had deposited it, but instead of cleansing his many sores with it, he poured a copious amount into his glass and drank it. He shed a few tears at last at Anton's apology, which was apparently on behalf of the entire human race. It was fitting that Anton himself delivered it, for it was against Anton that Erik had committed the same sin that the world had committed against him. He had taken one look at Anton weeks before, judged him by his handsome face and his outrageous attire and put him down instantly as a useless dandy. It turned out the boy was kind and polite, well-spoken, tolerant and gentle. How many others had he misjudged? It should have made him feel better that he had encountered yet another example of humanity who declined to reject him, but instead he berated himself for the mistake in judgment and used it as more evidence against himself of his own worthlessness. He shed a few tears at the apology that he'd so longed for years ago, but that was all. The release he so desperately needed was denied him yet again.

* * *

**Shameless Begging & Final Author's Note:** I'm sorry it didn't end happy. I initially intended that it would, but it wasn't the way it needed to go. What did you think?


	91. Chapter 91: Superstition

**Author's Note****:** I promised you another chapter by Monday evening, and here it is Monday afternoon and it's ready, so I'm posting early because you guys deserve it. I expect to start working on the next chapter right away, so look for it either Tuesday or Wednesday. Oh yeah... and those of you who keep begging for Elizabeth, I'm pretty sure she's in the next one.

**Standard Discla**p**imer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian, whom we're calling Nadir just for the sake of simplicity and recognition, not because there is any Kay influence here. (I do own Anton and Elizabeth, and to all those who asked if they could have Anton, I think we could definitely work out a system of checking him out for long weekends if you wish. If you're nice, he might even wear his Erik mask for you, though not for too long, now that he sees what problems it can cause.)

**Acknowledgements/Review Awards****:** You all were so good to me last chapter that I can't even pick one... I mean... I could have cried over the reviews. (But I didn't. I leave all the crying to Erik. After all, he's had so much practice...) Anyway, seriously, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I'm glad you all liked it. This is a bit of a transitory chapter, but it's not too bad. Expect to see Elizabeth next chapter, and expect to get that either Tuesday or Wednesday. Have a wonderful day!!

**Kind requests****:** FortunesFavour (our dear reviewer friend Samantha) requested that I read her new story _Diary of a Mad Vicompte_. I did, and I must admit that I enjoyed it. It's just the type of lighthearted amusing stuff you need after putting up with all my angst. **_I_** actually laughed. Yes! I! I! I!

* * *

When Anton awoke the following morning his memories of his sojourn beneath the earth were vague and cloudy. His head ached on one side and his mouth felt dry and cottony. He stood, staggered a few steps, and sat back down. He couldn't tell for certain whether this was the after affect of alcohol or if he was perhaps still drunk. He rubbed the space around his right eye and wondered why all the pain was behind it. He had a vague recollection of something both terrifying and sad. What a haunting dream, he thought, and yet a part of him was already recognizing that it was definitely not a dream.

He dragged himself through his morning routine, eager to get back to the Opera to tell Christine what had happened, but he found the more he tried to hurry, the slower his progress seemed to become. When at last reached the Opera he was not only late, but he was pale and ill, for he couldn't bear the thought of breakfast and his head continued to throb.

As he burst into the singers' lounge trying desperately not to be any later, he tripped over a large bowl and one of the girls cried out angrily. Salt, which had previously filled the bowl, covered the floor. Recognizing that it was salt, he bent, took a pinch between the fingers of his right hand, and tossed it over his left shoulder. "What was the point of that?" he asked the indignant faces around him as he pointed to the bowl.

"It _was_ to warn off evil," Sabine said angrily.

"Guess it didn't work," Marcelle replied with a glare.

Anton stalked off to join the other men and was surprised to find the same type of behavior among them that was rampant among the women. Michel, the one who spoke the loudest about being a believing Catholic (and therefore not believing in superstition) was wearing an amulet of Saint Genesius of Rome that _he had not worn before_.

While warming up he was offered a piece of coral and a rabbit's foot, but declined both. In both cases he was given a peculiar look that suggested if he didn't want to take part in the banishing of whatever evil haunted the Opera, he must be a part of it. He hid his eyes behind his hair by putting his head forward and murmured something about having his own types of amulets specific to his Church. They left him alone after that.

Christine was nowhere to be seen and he suspected that if she weren't in her dressing room she was exploring below yet again. There was no way he was going to look for her, though because movement made him feel worse and he was still recovering from the incident with the bowl. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the ground to the side of the stage looking pale and green and wishing his head would stop hurting.

When Christine arrived she was quiet and sorrowful rather than determined and insistent. Anton figured it was due to her lack of success the previous evening. When she greeted him, a bit of his pallor subsided as he became excited about what he was about to tell her. Then all at once he remembered the sorrow in the peculiar eyes and his promise to tell no one, least of all Christine Daaé. He studied her carefully. What must be the relationship between them? But he couldn't even ask, for Erik had requested he _never speak of him __to her at all_ and Anton had solemnly given his word.

* * *

If Anton was feeling ill, Erik was positively ailing. He awakened, if one could call what he had been doing sleeping, to find himself in his wing-backed chair with a wineglass in his lap and a pain in his back that screamed he'd been sitting upright far too long. He moved slightly to ease his back but the small, insignificant motion was enough to turn his stomach. He hadn't the time to get up or grab a bowl before his stomach heaved and his jaw opened reflexively. He threw himself onto his knees and waited for the contents of his stomach to appear before him. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, his stomach was entirely empty so he gagged and wretched helplessly and fruitlessly for several minutes before his body surrendered and gave him a brief rest. He eased himself downward onto the cold stone of the floor and lay there for an untold amount of time before finally lifting himself first to his knees and then to his feet. He gripped the chair. His legs felt unsteady. He left the glass lying where it fell and shuffled to the kitchen where the evidence of the activities of the evening before revealed themselves in shining green bottles, popped corks, and his realistic mask lying on the table. This last he picked up, held a moment and then let slip back to the table before making his way down the hallway to his room, hands upon the wall for support. He sunk to his knees before the full-length mirror and gazed at the reflection. He scarcely recognized the face. Had someone suggested a month earlier, a year earlier, a decade earlier the possibility of not recognizing himself, he would have be certain to call it a good thing. Now he was simply horrified.

Climbing into the coffin was out of the question in this condition, and the Louis-Philippe room was far too far away, so he again lay down against the cool stones and closed his eyes for a few moments before the heaving overtook him again.

* * *

The remainder of the week whenever Christine invoked the name of Erik it was Anton who hushed her and reminded her that it must not be spoken. The first time she was certain he was teasing her and reminded him that she did not appreciate being patronized. Then she looked at him and noticed the expression on his face. It was not superstitious fear, but it was far from amusement either. She put it from her mind. It was just as well anyway she not speak of Erik again until she had her answer from the Persian.

Meanwhile, all around them small likenesses of Saint Cecilia became popular with the orchestra and a number of the singers, while the remainder continued to pre Saint Genesius. Dancers wore rings of coral on their fingers or red silk bracelets on their wrists or, if they could lay hands on a British sixpence, they drilled a hole through it and wore it on a necklace chain as an amulet. Horseshoes were placed in a variety of areas, and not a few members of the company began to carry Bibles with them to and from practice. Someone acquired a piece of bamboo from the Orient and, declaring that Orientals knew best about luck, placed it backstage. Even with all these charms and amulets about, it was not unusual to see a person turning around to the right and spitting. Small blocks of wood also became commonplace for people were often needing to "knock on wood" after having spoken of luck in any form, including having mentioned one of the other luck charms. All in all, it is a true marvel that any rehearsing at all took place in those first two weeks following Erik's sudden disappearance.

Someone came up with the idea to put together an offering or sacrifice to the ghost in exchange for the director, and though the more rational-minded among the company pointed out that other than the disappearance of the director, nothing bad had actually happened since they had begun, the idea caught on nonetheless. In fact, those who commented that the ghost had not shown himself or done anything to even announce his presence were met with angry glares which were followed immediately by much spitting and knocking and touching of amulets.

* * *

Knowing exactly where Erik was and why, and also that there had never been an Opera Ghost (at least not one who would be appeased by offerings of food, flowers, and ribbons) Nadir avoided the cast and crew when they spoke of their superstitions. He desperately wished he had someone with experience to oversee the rehearsals, for without Erik, he had no way of knowing for certain whether everything was being done properly. He noticed their Don Juan, Anton, was suddenly more outgoing than before and was offering suggestions to other singers especially ideas about how characters should act and philosophical commentary on the nature of the story being told. He hoped that the boy's ideas would not take the cast in a direction that would anger Erik when he returned.

Desperate to get away from the throng of giddy dancers and somber-faced singers, Nadir opened his office door—and promptly slammed it closed again. Then he looked carefully up and down the hall and waited until he was certain no one would arrive suddenly, for when he'd opened the door, he had quite certainly seen Erik lounging casually in one of the chairs. He opened the door but a crack and looked in. Yes, that was surely Erik. He was leaning back with his head resting almost on the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a shapeless black mask and by the turn of his head and the movement in the dark sockets, it was clear he had already seen Nadir peering through the crack in the door. Nadir opened the door wide enough to put one leg through, then quickly pivoted his body, allowed the door to open slightly further to admit him, and pulled it shut abruptly behind him just as he pulled his foot clear. He latched the door quickly before turning to Erik. Erik's posture suggested confidence and Nadir could have no way of knowing how long it had taken Erik to arrange himself in such a fashion solely for Nadir's own benefit. "Oh! You are back then, are you, then?" he said brightly, deciding not to dwell on whatever it was that had upset Erik and caused him to go below the week before.

"For only a moment, Daroga," Erik replied, and Nadir felt something within him sink. Erik's voice was still utterly despondent. Nadir sighed. "I apologize if my ill health is disturbing you, Daroga," Erik continued with a sarcastic edge, and Nadir's demeanor shifted once again. "Perhaps I should simply die and get it over with. Save everyone the trouble."

"No one wants that, Erik," Nadir snapped more irritably than he had intended.

"I could name a few who would be pleased," Erik offered.

"Before you go off and die it would be nice if you would at least meet with Elizabeth. This is the second letter I've received. Says she has work at Salpetriere Hospital but her schedule is flexible as regards a visit to you. And Christine is asking about you as well. Says she recognized you by your eyes. What do you expect me to tell her? She..." and here Nadir hesitated, for though Erik had once stated that he was no longer interested in pursuing Christine, it was hard to believe after he'd put the lives of hundreds of people at risk to secure her the first time. "She is adamant she must see you, and if I may say so, she is pale and sorrowful and... and..." he struggled for the proper word.

Erik was deep in thought for so long that Nadir was certain he had fallen asleep when suddenly he startled him by saying decisively "I will see her opening night. Tell her I will see her opening night and not before. I will, of course, have to lock the gate again, you understand." Nadir sighed and nodded. There was no point in arguing; Erik's mind was obviously set. Almost as an after-though Erik pulled a key from his pocket. "If you wish, have a copy of this made for yourself. In case you _need_ me, as you put it the other day, though I rather imagine there is in reality little need of someone like me. Besides, you should need it in case I were to die. "

"I have already been through your death twice, Erik. I have no need to go through it again," Nadir said irritably and Erik dared to wonder whether it was the trouble it caused him or whether he actually enjoyed his company for some sick reason.

"And Elizabeth?" Nadir asked, changing the subject. "Please do not postpone that visit until opening night, Erik. I do not know if she will be here that long. Do you want to take the chance she leaves again? You have not even seen her since..." he gestured to indicate the Opera in its entirety.

Erik's sigh sounded like the final breath of a dying man. "Fine, I will see her. Tell her not to expect much."

Nadir shook his head and walked toward the door, though he had not yet made up his mind whether he would actually leave or simply stand at the doorway and argue uselessly with the man.

"Daroga," Erik called, and he turned. "It is happening for real," he said softly. "It was supposed to be merely an opera."

_"Merely an opera?"_ Nadir repeated. "I uttered those words once and you looked about to kill me. Do you hear yourself now Erik?"

Erik's seemingly empty eye sockets rolled upward in disgust. "It is not an opera like other operas, no. But it is a fiction. An exaggeration. An amplification of reality, if you will."

Nadir nodded but his expression made it quite clear that Erik's words were a puzzle to him.

"You have seen me," Erik continued.

"Long ago," was Nadir's reply. What did _that_ matter now?

"Hideous. A monster. Surely you think there is nothing worse."

"Those are your words, Erik, not mine."

"Just because you do not say them aloud does not mean they are not your words. And I have heard you say similar things upon occasion." Here Nadir turned his eyes downward with shame and Erik continued, "Always you avert your eyes."

"It is _respect_, Erik, respect and consideration because it always seemed to cause you pain to be seen."

There was a moment of recognition as Erik silently acknowledged that Nadir's words were true. It did distress him to have eyes upon him, regardless of the reaction of the person belonging to those eyes. Nadir had seen him and had not screamed aloud, but it was far easier to accuse him of having been horrified than to imagine otherwise and later learn the truth. It was always safer to assume the worst. "But you must admit it, Daroga. Do not lie to spare my feelings. After all, _I have seen myself."_

"I admit you were dealt a cruel hand, Erik."

Erik was becoming annoyed. "Oh, such a nice way to say it," he said sarcastically.

"What would you have me do? You wish to force me to tell a man he is ugly to his face?" He stopped "Or his..." he gestured in frustration at the mask, "whatever? Fine. If you wish to hear me say it I will tell you that you are not an attractive man, that I could not believe Christine met with you regularly by choice until I learned that she had not seen you because I could not imagine that the beauty of your voice could make up for the..." and he forced himself to say it "ugliness of your face." He turned away and would not look at Erik who had made him say it aloud in his presence.

"The _ugliest_ of faces," Erik suggested.

"Yes, yes, if you say so, yes."

"It is what I thought, too, Daroga." His voice had taken on a strange introspective quality.

The sound of his voice turned Nadir's face back to him, despite himself.

"I was wrong, Daroga. It is much, _much_ worse now." This first was spoken in a tone of utter sorrow, but that which came immediately after was spoken with firm resolve. "It is my punishment for forgetting my place. I belong underground. I am of the darkness. I do not belong here among those of you who are normal. I will be punished severely."

"Erik, that is preposterous!" Nadir said turning around and taking a step towards him, but he stopped when Erik's hands went up to the mask protectively. He took a step back. "I would not Erik. You know that," he said softly.

"You would be sorry if you did," Erik replied; it was not a threat but a simple statement of fact.

"How, Erik? How could it be worse?"

Erik laughed bitterly. "Yes, indeed. How could it possibly get worse?"

"You know it is not what I meant. It is that mask, is it not? Like the young man, like Monsieur Kuznetsov?" Erik declined to answer but what could be seen of his deepset eyes through the holes of the mask showed fear. "Put your pride and dignity aside and let the doctor examine you, then. Dignity will do you no good if you become sick enough to die."

"Death would be preferable to letting that man know what I am," was Erik's reply.

"Someone from Salpetriere, then. Elizabeth will know someone whom you can trust."

Erik rose. Now he was angry; his words, though soft, were spoken with hostility Nadir had not witnessed in Erik since before he was said to have died. "I will die before I will be exposed before her beau," he spewed, and then he was gone. Nadir must have blinked as Erik opened the trap because one moment he was there and the next Nadir wondered if he had dreamed him.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I know that after all you did for me last chapter, I shouldn't need any more reviews, but I'd still love to hear what you think of this one... Thanks!!


	92. Chapter 92: Barriers

**Author's Notes****:**

IMPORTANT! Be sure to read this one!

Two possible continuity errors:

1) Somehow I LEFT OUT of chapters 88-90 (the long conversation between Anton and Erik) the fact that at some point Anton becomes aware that Erik understands Russian. There was supposed to be a point during the drunken madness where Anton said something in Russian and Erik responded and the remainder of the conversation continued in Russian. This is one more reason why Anton is reluctant to reject Erik; he is the only person with whom he can speak his native tongue.

2) I may have mistimed Elizabeth's letters. Both letters were received while he was in his totally depressive slump but BEFORE he realized exactly how bad his face was getting. I don't know if I did that right or wrong. I have to go back and check.

**Standard Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is based on Leroux, including the Persian, whom we're calling Nadir just for the sake of simplicity and recognition, not because there is any Kay influence here. (I do own Anton and Elizabeth, and my plot, but that's it.)

**Review Award for the review that really got to me this time around** goes to Whisper of the Winds for saying: _Leave it to me to find a piece from an opera that made me think of several chapters from your fanfiction... The aria is "S'altro Che Lagrime", from La Clamenza Di Tito. "If you don't attempt something other than tears for him, all your weeping will be in vain. To this useless pity which you feel, oh, how similar is cruelty."_ If she had said "Your fanfiction reminds me of an opera," I would have said "Aw, that's sweet. But she said "An opera reminds me of your fanfiction." Somehow, it means something totally different. :tear:

* * *

Arriving early, Anton carried with him a bottle of vodka and small box containing a number of remedies he'd received from the dancers. The box was bound to the bottle with a bit of ribbon that he'd procured, also from a dancer. "Is that to leave for the ghost?" someone asked him, falling into step beside him. It was Josette, the dancer who had come up with the idea of making a sacrifice to exchange for the director in the first place.

"Indeed," he replied. "Where am I to leave it?"

She ignored his question. "Vodka? Who ever heard of an offering of vodka?"

"It is a Russian custom," he offered, and she seemed partially satisfied.

Then, suddenly she reached out to him and opened the box saying, "And what is in here?" and she looked up at him with a queer look.

But he was prepared for this. "It is," he said again, "a Russian custom. One offers a bottle of vodka as well as something one holds dear. Considering the trouble I've had these last few weeks due to... costuming, these remedies are quite important to me. To part with them is _quite_ a sacrifice. According to our customs, such a sacrifice would appease any ghost."

"Oh," was the reply. Then she hesitated. "But I rather expect it's not a Russian ghost. It should be a French ghost."

Anton had not considered this. He paused. "I do not think it should matter. Once a person dies all the nationalism fades."

She cocked her head and looked at him in what might have been awe. Then she asked "Do you think we should all give something that is important to us then?"

Anton grinned. "It is a Russian custom," he said softly, "but I cannot see how it could cause any harm."

"Does each of us need a bottle of vodka then as well?" she asked.

"Ah, well..." he paused purely for effect. He had already decided what his answer would be. "The idea is to find the strongest spirit one can. In my country vodka is quite common. I imagine you might consider bringing absinthe instead. Of course, the nationality of the giver means more than the nationality of the ghost," he added indicating his own bottle. "But remember: the strongest you can find," he emphasized. Then he hurried away so she might not hear his laughter.

* * *

Christine Daaé was angry. "What is this nonsense?" she asked Anton, primarily because he was one of few singers who spoke to her.

"They are offerings to the ghost," he said with a ghost of a smile. "For the safe return of the director."

"That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard," she said. _"There is no ghost."_

His usual joking nature prompted him to reply, _Or there is no director_, but having opened his mouth he simply shut it again immediately because such a comment would surely result in her asking what he meant, and the right series of questions would lead him down dangerous corridors in the dark that he was not to admit he had traveled. "I don't believe in ghosts either," he said "but I'm playing along. I put in a bottle of vodka."

She tossed her hair indignantly. "I am not certain how I feel about playing along that there is a ghost," she said. "Someday they will seek to rid the place of all its ghosts, and then what is like to happen? _Someone_ shall get hurt," she said this last with a look that made it quite plain whom she expected to be hurt, but Anton said nothing.

"Might we go for a drive tomorrow," he suggested to change the subject.

She hesitated. "I shall go for a drive with you, Monsieur, but a drive is only a drive. Do not invest any hope in me."

"You are not free then?" he began but then regretted it for reasons he could not explain.

"I shall never marry, Anton," she said at last. She looked at her hands. She had returned Erik's ring, but she could pretend it was there still. She had not heard him in—oh! _so long!_—but she would pretend if pretending was all she had.

"I was not speaking of marriage, Christine! I scarcely know you," he said, laughing. "It is a French custom, perhaps, to hurry into marriage so abruptly?" She smiled with relief. "If I _were_ asking, Christine, I'd do it properly by going first to your father. If ever we decide that such a question should be asked, that is what I shall be certain to do. I wouldn't mind meeting him in the meantime."

Her smile fell at the mention of the word father. She was visibly upset as she turned away and left abruptly. Her sudden change of expression and departure without saying a word led Anton to draw some very strange and inaccurate conclusions.

* * *

It was two days later that Erik again emerged through the trap door in Nadir's office once again with a dejected countenance. "I have changed my mind entirely," he told Nadir, who was there only because of his promise to Erik. It was Sunday and there was no rehearsal. "I cannot see her." It was also the day of Elizabeth's scheduled visit, the day he had told Nadir to tell Elizabeth it was appropriate to come. Moreover, noticed Nadir, glancing at his watch, it was mere minutes before Elizabeth was to arrive! There was not time to send a letter. Indeed, she was surely on her way by now. If she were in the habit of being early, she would likely be waiting out front in the hall already!

"Erik, you _must_. I have already promised. She will be on her way here by now. It is too late to change your mind!"

"It is never too late to change one's mind," he said holding out a hand to Nadir. "Turn her away when she arrives."

"_Turn her away when she arrives_? Do you _hear_ yourself? A lady travels all this way to see you and you expect me to _turn her away when she arrives_? You expect me to tell her simply that you have changed your mind? You no longer wish to see her? 'I apologize Madame, but the gentleman in question wishes not to see you at present.' Oh _yes_. _That _would go over nicely."

"You do not have to be rude about it, Daroga. Certainly you can come up with something to tell her. Lies are not altogether foreign to you, are they? Tell her I have fallen ill. No! Do _not_ say that. That is the worst possible thing you could say to her. She would worry. It would cause her to rush in and," he shuddered "_look_ for me. I have had enough pity to last several lifetimes over. I am tired of it."

It wasn't true, actually. There was a part of him that remembered being utterly helpless in the hotel room, and though he had told himself over and over again that he hated it, that it was both frustrating and shameful, there was a part of himself, the part that had never been cared for properly as a child, that wanted to surrender himself entirely to the care of another, especially if she would be as gentle as she had been that one night he remembered best. She had held his hand, run one hand over the back of his head... her hands were so soft! Her face was close to his. There were words in his ear. Had she said...? He could almost imagine that she had said...! But no! Had she _kissed _him? It seemed she might have, just behind the mask and beneath his ear. He had even let her _touch the mask_, and she had not removed it. She had done everything right, until she had stepped out the door. He'd held onto her hand until the last. Why—_oh why!_—had she stepped out the door? He noticed Nadir looking at him and realized he had stopped speaking suddenly when he'd gotten lost in thought. "Tell her I am unexpectedly busy. An emergency. I had to go out."

"You had to go out?" He could hear the matter-of-fact sarcasm in Nadir's repetition of the phrase.

"Right. She would not believe that one, would she? Or she would be joyful that I had done so and would wait for my return." He sat, elbows on knees, head and hands hanging, a posture that had become almost constant of late.

"I rather imagine she might."

"Then what shall you tell her?"

"It is my point exactly! There is nothing I can tell her, except the truth, which is that I rather suspect you are afraid to see her."

"Not _afraid_, Daroga."

"Ashamed, then?"

Erik's eyes glittered dangerously and Nadir was grateful if not exactly thankful that he was still tired, still listless, and perhaps a little under the weather. "Why must you always assume something negative?" he hissed.

"I believe it comes from many years of your acquaintance."

Erik hung his head again. "I will see her, Daroga, for but a moment.

"It is arranged as a lunch," Nadir said warningly. It was true. Erik had agreed to it that afternoon when Nadir had shown him the letter. He'd been too disheartened to decline that afternoon and had allowed himself to be persuaded that lunch with Elizabeth would lift his spirits. But that was before the terrible realization of the mask. Lunch now would be absolutely impossible. He felt a terrible lump in his throat but his eyes remained dry. He tried to analyze it for a moment. Dare he admit he had hoped to see her? But no. It was just a courtesy he must get out of the way. He shook his head. "If you had seen her before she left," Nadir tried but Erik silenced him with a glare. "If you could have seen her crying that day," he tried again. But Erik wasn't listening. He took the key ring from its hook and disappeared into the hallway. He returned a moment later with instructions.

"There is a dining room with a false wall," he said. "You are familiar with it?" Nadir nodded. "Take her there."

* * *

Nadir pushed back a portion of the wall and called through it. "Erik. Your visitor..." There was silence. "A moment please," Nadir mumbled, then crawled into the space where the wall had been. Nadir had already warned her Erik was in a peculiar mood and she wondered what this could possibly mean. Nadir had admitted that Erik had almost changed his mind, and she remembered their first meeting together with Christine. No doubt he was simply wondering what to say to _her_ now after all this time. Indeed, she had spent days determining what to say to him as well. She knew better than to begin with _Why in hell did you leave?_ but it didn't keep it from being the first thing in her mind. No, first a greeting, a compliment, make sure he's comfortable. He was always so temperamental and then suddenly was gone. Who knew other than he what was on his mind as he left! She must find out eventually in order to repair it, but first she must ensure nothing new upset him. It would not be an easy meeting, but she looked forward to it all the same and found herself smiling in girlish anticipation as she listened to Nadir, whom she could hear, arguing with Erik, whom she could not.

"I'm sure you're aware I know better than that!" snapped Nadir, irritably. Then "She has been waiting Erik!" A long pause. "All right then. Have it your way." Nadir reentered the room and the wall seemed to materialize behind him. "He'll be a moment," he said. Elizabeth wondered why he didn't leave the wall open, but it wasn't worth asking. A smile played at her lips. She was afraid she'd forgotten the joy of the peculiarity of the Opera and the strange man who'd had such a hand in building it.

A voice whispered her name in her ear, and she turned, but there was no one there. And at that moment while she was facing the other way, he entered through the main door. Nadir had seemingly vanished. Curse them both, she thought, but she couldn't help but laugh. Then she saw him, and she held out her arms to him.

"Erik!" she cried reaching toward him. He approached her slowly. He was still timid above ground apparently, but he allowed her to embrace him and she held him tightly. He smelled very strongly of cologne. Cologne? When had Erik ever worn cologne before? It was a pleasant odor, but a bit overdone. She was just resolving to ignore it when she suddenly recognized the scent as being _Nadir's_ cologne. Peculiar, yes, but no real matter. She released her grip and held him at arms length away.

He was in black, mask and all, and stood straight before her. His eyes were just as she remembered them: amber, beautiful, and just a bit sad. "You look good!" she said, sounding genuine. His eyes shifted. Surely this was just something people said. She couldn't mean it, not to him. Besides, it was not as though she could actually see him anyway. "I _mean_ it," she said. (How could she read his emotions without seeing his face, he wondered. He'd worked so hard to control his eyes!) She cast her eyes up and down as though admiring his mask, his clothing, whatever.

Surely a complement was appropriate in return. "You look radiant" he replied. It was rather true, actually. She looked entirely different. Her hair was up in a less severe manner, there was greater color in her face, and her eyes somehow _sparkled_. And she was wearing blue—a dark, royal blue. Had he ever seen her wear any color than black before? Surely not. There was something different about her. Radiant was the word that came to mind, but it was not beauty that produced it but joy. Yes, that is it. She was _joyful_. He hadn't seen her joyful before either, had he?

"Why, thank you," she said, laughing. "Shall we?" she indicated the door. "I've not had lunch and I've plenty of time. Do you go out?" she said it casually. She expected him to say yes.

"Occasionally," he said. It was partially true. He still went out at night. _Very occasionally_, he thought. Had he been out since he moved back in? Perhaps not... He struggled to recall. _Not since the night he'd tripped over Nadir_. "I generally have things brought in, however. Nadir will bring lunch." He withdrew a chair for her and waited for her to be seated then took his place across from her. How could he sit through lunch with her? She was so different already, in so little time. Or perhaps it had been longer than he realized. He was still the same, he thought with dread, _only worse_. She would surely be disappointed. What had he done while she was away? He'd helped Nadir hire the company, but that was all. He'd lain around in the coffin and pitied himself for—what was it?—months? He'd composed absolutely nothing new, made no other progress, managed, without even trying to, to damage the skin of a kind young man who had shown him nothing but acceptance. And he had turned Christine into a bit of a ghost. Ah yes, he'd been busy!

He glanced across the table briefly, keeping his eyes down, avoiding hers. His gaze fell upon her hands and for a moment he had the sensation that the world had stopped turning while the laws of motion declared that he would keep going. He nearly fell out of his chair. The plain gold band she'd always worn was gone. _It keeps me from having to get married again. _Then she _would_ get married again?

His heart pounded in his ears. Another ring was in its place—a beautiful sparkling _diamond_. He knew very well what a diamond meant. Ah, but ultimately it solved his problem. He would not have to explain to her why, no matter what either of them felt, this was simply not going to happen. "Are you getting married?" he asked her. He tried to keep his tone as light and social, but he heard his words rush out in a horrified gasp.

She laughed. Was she laughing _at him_? It was the _second time in just a few days_. Terror was one thing, but when did he begin to strike _humor_ into the hearts of all he encountered? "Oh, of course not! Don't be absurd," she cried out waving her other hand, the one without a ring, at him carelessly. Then her expression became serious. "Are you?" she asked. She looked absolutely horrified.

"Now who is being absurd?" he said ominously. Surely she wasn't mocking him! She was not such a person who would mock him... was she?

"Well, one never knows," she said. "Stranger things have happened."

"I beg to differ," he told her. What could possibly be stranger than the idea of someone wanting to marry him, he wondered, and decided again that it was probably just an expression. He pointed to the new ring on her hand and she self-consciously caressed it with the fingers of her other hand. A smile played at her lips as she told him "This is simply to remember someone very special." Surely he understood, she thought. Surely he recognized the stone! Or he would, if he saw it closer. She held out her hand across the table.

He was careful not to touch it, but he looked very carefully. It was hard to tell quality looking just like this with only his eyes here at the table, but regardless of quality, it was certainly very small, and it made him sad for her. He remembered her comment that she had supported herself by working and had not touched her inheritance. Perhaps someone was hoping to take advantage of that inheritance for himself. He glowered.

She could only speculate why he was angry but considered that perhaps he was upset she had kept the stone after having represented that she had returned all she had not spent on the Opera transaction. It _had_ been just a bit dishonest, after all. She should have admitted in her letter she had kept one, just to remember him, so he would not be surprised when she encountered him again. The truth was, though, that she had not expected to see him face to face—ever again. She wondered if she might get the chance to _now_ though, for he had agreed to lunch. Surely he would not put her through that awkward situation of eating alone while he merely stared at her through the mask. Would he?

Ah, but he would, she learned a moment later when Nadir brought the meal, and it was awkward at best. It was not possible to eat in the black mask, and he could not let her see what he had done to himself. She would fawn over him and insist that he be more careful, and then she would try to take him away someplace. Then there would be intended remedies that would be harsh and painful. But mostly he was afraid she would be kind and gentle, for he desperately craved it and he was certain—_absolutely certain_—that he could not withstand the temptation again. He would give in to all his horrid desires for certain if it happened again. It mustn't happen again.

She could not possibly have known that beneath the mask were several lesions that had become infected and abscessed. She simply loathed the mask because of all it represented and couldn't bear to look upon it knowing that he was right there, _right beneath it_, and she had not seen him clearly without it since the afternoon before the ill-fated carriage ride. She remembered his visage clearly. She held no illusions about the sunken eyes, the lipless mouth, the noseless face, the hollow cheekbones, the waxy skin and the few long dark locks of hair his scalp grew. Her memory did not deceive her, but it played tricks on her. She was likely the only woman alive who could look upon a pirate flag or a poison warning and grow nostalgic. And now she desperately wished to see _him_. Certainly she could force herself to meet his eyes and pretend it wasn't there, but it _was_ there. It had been there too long. It frustrated and angered her with both herself and him. She knew she should have addressed the issue sooner, before he had disappeared when they had shared the little house Raoul had intended for Christine. She should have requested he wear it only for Christine's visits; after all, they'd kept all the draperies drawn anyway. She regretted not making it absolutely clear that she preferred him without it, and she was further ill at ease when she realized that once again she would be the only one eating, so she paused, utensils in hand. After a long awkward silence she finally said "Good Lord, Erik, take that wretched thing off. I can't bear it."

It took only an instant. His erect posture immediately became a slump and the amber of his eyes disappeared as he cast his black sockets downward to stare at the empty plate before him. She stared in amazement at the transformation; it was just as had occurred when Christine arrived the first time. One moment a man, and the next...

"Come now, Erik," she said softly. "It is only Elizabeth."

His eyes flickered to her face momentarily, then disappeared in darkness as he closed them. He lowered his face and raised his hands and then suddenly the mask fell to his lap.

There were four that she could see clearly—the forehead, beneath each cheekbone and on his chin—large sores, red in the center and darkened at the edges that wept an unhealthy yellow-tinged fluid. "Oh my God." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them and there was nothing she could do take them back. Even as they emerged she saw him begin to slowly raise his eyes to hers, hear the words, and turn his eyes back in shame. She had but a moment to try to determine what had happened to him, to assure him she was merely worried for him, but she barely managed to stammer his name through rising tears before the mask was back upon his face and he was standing at her side.

The meal was over. That much was readily apparent from the way he touched the back of her chair. He did not touch her, however, she noticed, and she suddenly she was aware that when they had embraced earlier his hands had never touched her. Neither of them had so much as taken a bite, but the meal was finished, for the mask was back upon his face and he was leading her, silently and without touching her, back to the main foyer.

"Erik," she whispered as they reached the door, "Let us not go through all these misunderstandings again! You must know—"

"Indeed. Let us not. I am sorry. My behavior was inexcusable."

"No, Erik," she tried to say, but he opened the door and moved in such a way that she found herself thrust through it without his body having made contact with hers. She was disoriented a moment then turned back to him as quickly as she could to reenter. There could be no more of this and it was time to tell him at last—but the door was already closed in her face and when she pulled upon it, she found it locked. She stood a moment in horror, then rearranged her features to a fake placid smile the way she had always done and hailed a carriage.

Her friend stood in the shadows, weeping softly.

Nadir stood behind him. "That was rather unkind," he said softly.

Curse him! How had he learned to come and go so quietly through those passages? And how long had he been watching? "You'll not criticize her Daroga. She cannot help it."

"Actually I meant—"

"You will stay out of my private affairs, Daroga! You will speak nothing of matters of which you know nothing. Is that understood?"

"Painfully so, Erik," Nadir responded patiently. How sad that Erik seemed to be the only one who did not know.

* * *

**Chapter Title Request****:** This chapter temporarily unnamed. I don't know if it will come to me tonight or not, so in the meantime, feel free to offer suggestions. Thanks!

**Grammar Alert****:** She would surely be disappointed. Split infinitive done on purpose because I think it's better this way. (My mission: To boldly split infinitives that no grammarian has split before.)

**Shameless Begging****:** Well, you asked for an Erik & Elizabeth reunion, didn't you? How fitting that they are right back to their old ways of misunderstanding each other at every turn. What on earth shall she do now?


	93. Chapter 93: Gifts

**Author's Note:** It's Wednesday, so at least temporarily we're back to a chapter a day. I will NOT be home to type tonight and it's unlikely I will get one finished tomorrow during the day with all else I have going on, so PLEASE don't expect a Thursday night chapter. If you really want a Thursday night chapter, just save this one for Thursday, okay?

**Standard Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is Leroux-based even the Persian. Ignore the fact that we're calling him Nadir.

**Review Comment:** I think almost every single one of you expressed frustration. I am so sorry to frustrate you... it's just... well... it... I can't say. Just hang in there and trust me, 'kay?

* * *

The offering to the ghost went untouched by the side of the stage for two days before little Meg, recently returned to the corps de ballet from the time before the closing, commented that the items should be moved to box five.

"It was always his box when Mother worked here," she said. "But it's not all this nonsense he wants anyway, but money. Mother learned from the past managers that the envelopes she used to deliver to him each month contained twenty thousand francs."

"Twenty thousand francs!" It was a fortune! "Every _month_?" The girls who had gathered to follow her to Nadir whispered behind their hands excitedly.

"I think so," she whispered back. "Now hush." She couldn't be certain, but there had been an _envelope _every month. "You should hire Mother back, Monsieur," she told Nadir. "The ghost was always very adamant that Mother should attend to him in his box."

"I hardly think we need any box keepers at all until we open," Nadir sidestepped and removed himself from the superstitious group of girls rapidly. He had initially planned to carry the "offered" items down to Erik himself once he copied that key, but now that he had the key, the pile had grown in size so much that it would require several trips. He considered going below and requesting Erik come above, but he was disinclined to intrude on Erik's solitude. It had been rather embarrassing to come upon him weeping openly in the foyer that Sunday afternoon after he escorted Elizabeth out. Erik had promptly gone below ground without even sampling the fare Nadir and Darius had provided. In the end, Nadir invited Darius to join him and they devoured the feast without a word about what had occurred between Erik and the lady. Still, Erik had given him the key. He had said _You should need it in case I were to die._ Erik was, apparently, excessively melodramatic. He had been dying of love, yet he had not actually died. Now he was dying again. It was unlikely such was actually the case... _but Erik doesn't necessarily know that I believed that_, Nadir rationalized. He could explain that he was just assuring himself of Erik's restored health. He eyed the offering and at last decided upon a compromise.

* * *

He carried what he could hold in his arms and still safely navigate the passageways to Erik's lair. Arriving at last at the lake, he felt sick with fear at the idea of crossing it. Erik had nearly killed him once on that lake and he had no desire to find out if he would do it again. Still, it had been his curiosity that betrayed him that night. When he heard the singing, he leaned over in the small vessel to listen. He doubted Erik would be underwater tonight. He rather doubted the electric bell was still working, but then, they had continually forgotten to dismantle the torture chamber, so why not? Perhaps the torture chamber was something they could accomplish tonight.

Once he crossed without being drowned, Nadir began to worry about the next step—ringing the bell and waiting to see if Erik actually appeared. If he didn't, he would leave everything at his door. There was no way he would enter the house uninvited. Then again, if he left everything at the door, Erik was like to obsess for days on end about who had managed to descend to the depths past his gate, then he would come to interrogate Nadir about the key, perhaps at the worst of times. Perhaps it was better to simply enter and hope for the best.

Fortunately, Nadir did not have to wait long. The door swung open with an urgency and a sudden rush of air and Erik stood before him, his yellow eyes luminous in the dark. For a moment both men had the sensation of being suspended in time, for neither was quite what the other expected. From Nadir's perspective Erik was straighter and taller than he had expected and moved with an exigency he had not demonstrated previously. Nadir felt encouraged, but a moment later his heartening diminished for Erik appeared disappointed. Erik had been expecting—or rather fantastically anticipating—someone decidedly more female. Even so, he invited Nadir in.

The house on the lake was as Nadir remembered it from his previous visits, both of which had been under far more dire circumstances. This time, he took the opportunity to look around as he was led into the parlor. Erik looked at the assortment of items in his arms, and Nadir thrust them at him. "Gifts from the cast," he managed and Erik looked surprised. _Very_ surprised.

"Gifts?" His voice could not have sounded more confused, more staggered, if Nadir had told him the whole of the Opera above them had mysteriously vanished. He eyed the items curiously but declined to take them from Nadir's arms. "Why?" he asked suddenly cautious.

Nadir sighed and rolled his eyes upward. Had he sensed the slightest tone of appreciation in Erik's voice? Had he actually sounded _pleased_ as well as incredulous when he said the word _gifts_? To admit now that it was mere superstition would cast him back into the role of the ghost, remind him once again that he was something to be feared. Yet to lie to him was not wise at all.

"Because they miss you," Nadir uttered at last. It wasn't a lie, really. They had provided an offering to the ghost because _they missed the director_. Though technically Erik was both, he had been the director far more than he had been a ghost of late. To admit how cast felt about his current identity without addressing what they thought of his former one was hardly a _lie_. It was merely... an omission.

Erik's disbelief was profound. "They... _miss_ me?"

Nadir smiled at the innocence of the question. "Yes. So much so that this is only a small part of it. I brought what I could carry only. Are you well? Can you come above and carry some of it down?"

"_Some_ of it?" He was incredulous. If two of them could not carry the remainder, then it was more than _three times_ what Nadir had brought him.

* * *

"Why is there so much of this?" he asked lifting a bottle to indicate he was talking about the liquor when at last he reached the store of offered items.

"I believe it was Monsieur Kuznetsov's idea," Nadir said softly, and cringed. Now would come the rapid questions, the backing him into a corner until he admitted the superstitious nature of the gifts. He would have to explain his way carefully around the fact that the gifts were for him _as the ghost_ though they missed him in his other role. No, it was not a lie that they missed him, but it would require copious explaining to convince Erik. Erik would be angry. Or perhaps he would be sorrowful. But Erik's actual reaction was not at all what Nadir expected.

"He... he... _told_ them?" he whispered in horror.

"Told them what?"

Erik appeared to have had the air knocked out of him. It took him a moment to catch his breath, then he said, "That is what I am asking you. What did he tell them?" Now his voice was urgent.

Nadir looked at Erik curiously. "I have no idea what they told him. I only heard them say "It is a Russian custom."

"A custom?" He lifted a bottle. Absinthe? A Russian custom? No, it couldn't be. It was decidedly strange, but he knew in an instant what Anton's intentions were, for despite his intoxication the night of their conversation, he remembered most of it. Alcohol. Infection. Advice. It had been over a week and open air had prevented the sores from getting any worse, but they still oozed a nasty yellow. Erik hadn't looked in the mirror, but he noticed the fluid whenever he removed his mask. Still, the boy had remembered and had attempted to keep his word! He was certainly sober now, and still he worried about the monstrosity he had discovered in the basement? Erik eased himself to the floor of the stage and sat close to the pile of gifts. It was not _only_ Anton who had done this. There were items of varying value, but all of them appeared to be things that had been kept and treasured by their previous owners. Some of them were wrapped attractively and tied with lace and ribbons, which he fingered thoughtfully.

_Do you know this is the first time I have been given gifts?_ There was the matter of Elizabeth and the Opera, but that was different some how. It was far larger, far more significant, yes... but it had also been done based on something he had told her in the carriage. It had been done perhaps out of guilt. And it had been done to rid herself of the diamonds which she could not return but declined to keep. This was a different sort of gift entirely. These were someone's treasures and they were being given to him for seemingly no reason at all. _This is the very first time I have been given gifts!_ Yes, he could visualize himself saying it to Nadir, but he did not. Somehow, saying it aloud would have cheapened the experience. He touched each of the items, lifting the smaller ones, leaning close to see those that were larger, running his willowy hands over each one in turn. Nadir stood back, folded his arms and waited. Erik's bright eyes were like those of a child on a holiday, except that watching him was far more rewarding; Erik actually appeared impressed by the cast's thoughfulness.

But the gifts were bizarre he was thinking nonetheless as he looked them over. Most of them were not things that someone would offer to a man or to someone of his age. Certainly very few were appropriate for someone to give his or her employer. There was a music box, a broach, a scarf, a letter, a handkerchief, a ring, a figurine, a knitted cap, a lock of hair tied with a blue ribbon, a very, _very_ worn pointe shoe... It reminded him strangely of his collection of treasures to remember Christine, though there was a distinct difference. Those had been purloined. These were willingly offered.

A few of them were even usable, such as the pair of cufflinks. It didn't matter, though, whether they were usable or not. Erik, having scarcely gotten past the period of disbelief, had entered a state wonder. He was impressed with even the least of the items. At length he looked up and concluded from Nadir's expression that he was rather making a fool of himself fondling the items, so he stood quickly. "We should move everything below before they return," he suggested. "So no one is offended."

"Absolutely," was the response. It took several trips, but soon all the items were in the house on the lake. Nadir lingered in the parlor waiting for Erik to ask him to stay, wondering if he should offer to or invite him above, debating whether to bring up the issue of Elizabeth, but Erik seemed impatient and at last Nadir left in the little boat.

* * *

Life was not as it had once been. It had never been easy to endure, but it had always been simple to understand. There was the world, and there was him. There was everyone else, and there was him. There were the things that others could do, and there was what he must do: hiding behind a mask to avoid frightening all of humanity, assuming secret identities to avoid retaliation for blame that had been laid upon him, moving from place to place to avoid upsetting the people with whom he came into contact, dwelling underground, using his hideous appearance to get what needed, forgoing anything more than basic needs; desires were a luxury afforded not to him.

Now the lines were blurred. Nadir had been his adversary—someone sent to track him down. Somehow, he had become something like a friend. Women, all women, were creatures of beauty upon which he was forbidden even to gaze, let alone touch. Suddenly, Christine asked for him, Elizabeth embraced him and Anton suggested that a number of others were waiting to do quite a bit more. Men were the enemy, those who hunted him and drove him underground, but Anton and Nadir knew and were accepting. Messieurs Fournier and LeBlanc were respectful and unsuspecting. His relationship with the world had changed entirely due to a simple piece of rubber, but his feelings had not changed. He still feared them all. Yet at the same time, he felt guilty. Guilty for all he had done to Christine—and to Nadir!—and even to Christine's former beau. Guilty for his behavior on stage with Christine recently, for casting her as he had, for forcing upon Anton all he had. But worst still—there were deaths upon his head. For how many was he responsible? How could he ever join the world with all that upon him?

Ah, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't because joining the world meant giving in to the temptation to have what everyone else does once again, and this time, it was likely he could manage it if he tried. A flat with a wife in it whom he could love and take out on Sundays! He remembered her lips by his ear. What had she said? Surely she had said it. Don't be foolish, he'd told her. It would have been a very foolish thing to tell such as him. But if it were possible, he would not have the strength to resist the temptation to make it happen, just as he had not before. He had been _saved_ before by Christine's horror. What would he do in the face of one who was not horrified?

Oh, but he'd solved that problem at last. Yes.

_You look good!_ she had said to the mask when she greeted him, and she said she meant it. Moments later, however, he had removed the mask and she had uttered the other—_Oh my God_—in a voice so filled with horror he could scarcely recognize her voice. Either she had forgotten the horror of his face, or she had accustomed herself to that but could not reconcile these new editions to his hideousness. Oh, it was ironic, he realized. He had perhaps at last encountered a woman who could endure the shrunken skull-like look of his head without fainting and in an effort to impress everyone except her, he had succeeding in making his face so much more terrible that now even she could not bear it. This never happened in _Don Juan Triumphant_, but it might as well have. It would make for a magnificent twist that opera enthusiasts would surely love. Perhaps this would have been a better ending. It was not too late to change the ending, was it?

He reflected over their time together. She had always met his eyes—always. She had never stared unabashedly at the gaping hole where a nose should have been, never trembled with disgust at his lack of fully formed lips, his sunken cheekbones.

She had never _spoken_ that way in his presence. She had been concerned, conveying urgency, but never obviously horrified. It was this—what he had done to himself—that horrified her.

But _she_ had done it to him! She had! How did she expect him to operate an opera from beneath the ground or from behind a mask that was almost as frightening as his face? Ensure that it is does not forever lie vacant! Grand reopening! What did she expect? She had done this to him! Yes, they liked him now! They even _missed_ him. He hadn't even been kind, but they liked him in his stupid rubber face. Could that have happened if he'd appeared as himself? Oh, certainly! Once they'd all recovered from their faints, those who hadn't run out screaming might come to accept him as he was. Surely. It was possible. In a pig's eye!

Well, he'd halfway managed it anyway, and if he could survive until opening night, that would be enough. In the meantime, whether he'd meant to or not, he'd certainly frightened her away. And the truth was, he hadn't meant to at all. He'd thought he had. He'd been so sure the he was glad she was gone. He told himself again and again. And then there was that knock on the door and he could not deny that something long dead within him leapt up and cried out that it was she, and he straightened himself and forced himself to open the door.

It hadn't been she. She would not be back. Meanwhile, the cast sends gifts.

Erik examined the pile of peculiar gifts. The first letter he had noticed was not addressed to him—not to any version of any identity he'd ever held. In fact, it was to one of the dancers and appeared to be from her mother. Why was this a gift for him? But there was a second letter, and it became obvious in a moment that this one _was_ intended for him. This one was in Russian.

Forgive the oddity of this array of items. They might have been  
far fewer and less strange had it not been for my influence.  
Superstitious dancers suspect a supernatural reason for your  
sudden departure, and (though it has been explained away by  
your partner repeatedly as a family matter and an illness) the  
dancers view any ill that has befallen you as part of a curse. I  
took advantage of their idea to make an offering to send you  
the vodka I promised as well as a variety of remedies that may  
provide some relief. I fear yours has progressed far further than  
mine and may require the attention of a physician. I also  
suspect that were you willing to be examined by one you would  
have done so by now. If I learn of anything more than may help,  
I will find a way to deliver a message to you. In the meantime,  
do what you can to repair the damage. Be well and return. The  
company needs you. You cannot possibly know how much.

The letter was not signed, but wasn't it obvious?

He untied the mask and forced himself to walk to the mirror. He didn't ultimately care about his body or his face, but the fact was the sores hurt terribly and the word rot still haunted him. He would rot when he was dead, not before. So thinking, he carried two bottles, one of vodka and one of absinthe, with him. Along the way he picked up a glass, a pair of scissors, a dull knife.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** To those of you who have found Erik's struggle with Elizabeth frustrating, I hope this does not frustrate you still more. It perhaps sheds some light upon Erik's behavior. If it does not, then I have been to cryptic (let me know if I have). Either way, more will come to light as we continue, so stay tuned for more.

**Title Issue:** This chapter is temporarily title-less also, as I thought you'd consider it more important to get a chapter than to get a chapter with a title. Feel free to offer suggestions, or I'll come up with something later.


	94. Chapter 94: Preparations

**Author's Note:** Well, it's Friday, and in between doing some other things both yesterday and today, I took a couple of writing breaks and managed to make this for you. It's not very long as chapters go... but the good new is that the next one... chapter 95... it'll be opening night. Anyway, I was going to take longer with it, but I got it mostly done and couldn't resist the urge to post. Hope you enjoy it!

**Standard Disclaimer:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is Leroux-based even the Persian. Ignore the fact that we're calling him Nadir.

* * *

Erik's mood waxed and waned several times during the weeks leading up to opening night. Twice it actually occurred to him to kill Anton. Not kill him for real, no, but to go to him, rage at him, strike fear into his heart, maybe even hurt him a little.

The first time was when he first splashed the vodka onto his wounded face as the boy had suggested and felt the searing pain rip through his entire body. The feeling took forever to fade and there was a point at which he expected it would not and he would endure the painful sting for the rest of his miserable life. But at last it diminished and eventually became a mere tingle amid near numbness. Even so, if the vodka burned that badly, there was no way he would try the absinthe. Better to _drink_ the absinthe then wait a bit and before putting the vodka on his face. At intervals he scraped the wounds clean with the knife and trimmed off darkened edges of tissue that looked useless and didn't appear to be healing. It looked worse but he felt better. It no longer hurt, no longer itched, burned only upon contact with vodka. After several cleansings with vodka over a period of several days, the sores were dry instead of weeping. When healed, there would likely be scars. If healed, he corrected himself. There likely wasn't time enough for them to heal. But what did a little thing like that matter now?

The second time he wanted to hurt Anton was when he dared to creep above. He carefully kept himself hidden as he had always done, for he was wearing only a black silk mask, perhaps the least attractive of all he owned for its shapelessness, but the only one that was light and breathable enough not to exacerbate the scarcely-healing gashes. He was on his way to box five, which he had managed to screen enough with dust covers that he could watch rehearsals undetected and offer comments to Nadir later. He was just slipping, undetected, through the floor of the amphitheatre on his way to the hollow pillar of box five when he heard them. Anton was not present, or if he was, he was not speaking; it was a group of girls and at least four of them spoke. They were relaying a very vivid description of the Opera Ghost.

Their physical description was fairly accurate, he thought, but their use of adjectives was like a hot poker straight though his heart without a second's hesitation. He frequently used the word hideous himself, but to hear it from the lips of a girl of perhaps sixteen years and to hear her say it with such revulsion was agonizing. It reminded him of the way it seemed all women felt. They used other words, too. Gruesome, for example. For a moment, Erik was very, very hurt, then the pain turned to rage. Where had these girls learned how he looked? From Anton, surely. Fortunately, it was impossible to encounter Anton in the floor. By the time Erik had reached the pillar, Anton was on the stage. Erik seethed, but there was no opportunity for confrontation without the entire company seeing him this way. What would they say if he suddenly bounded onto the stage in the silk mask? Well, they had not forgotten the ghost; that was for certain; they would surely recognize that identity. But how long before they made the connection between the two? Mere seconds if they heard his voice as he spoke to Anton. No, it was safer here inside the pillar where no one could look upon him and he could harm no one.

He'd sought out Anton from behind the walls later that evening, though, for he couldn't resist the confrontation. He'd rage at him, terrify him, then disappear again. That would teach the boy to be so patronizingly kind to such as he! But once again, things were not as they had once been. Foolish Anton had recognized his voice, been intrigued by fact that it came from within the room while he was not indeed there and wanted to know how the trick was done. He also wanted to know whether his message had been delivered. He asked whether any of his remedies were working. He expressed concern with the production and his own performance. Erik had crept through the wall with the absolute intention of frightening Anton into submission. Instead, he found himself admitting that he could do with more vodka (of which he was nearly out) and then offering a few suggestions for further improvement of Anton's quite close to perfect singing.

Anton had a perfectly decent explanation for the descriptions of Erik that were circulating among the company—a few dancers from long ago had returned with stories they said they had heard from someone called Joseph Buquet. He mispronounced the name and commented that the girls made superstitious signs whenever they said it. He hadn't said a word to anyone—he swore it, and Erik, who had frequently commented that oaths were to catch gulls with, found himself readily believing this one.

Then Anton began a string of questions about Christine Daaé—questions that caught Erik so off-guard that he answered them honestly. Truth be told, they weren't questions at all, but statements of fact, simply presented with a request for confirmation. _You know her, don't you? Not just as Eva. You really know her._ Well...yes. _You know her very well. Better than anyone else. Better than she knows herself._ How could he deny something that was apparently so obvious? Did she tell you that? _No, she doesn't speak of you. I think it's terrible. She should show you the respect that it due. You are proud of her, are you not?_ Of course. Who wouldn't be? _You taught her all she knows?_ Ah, not all... but much. Most. Yes. _She disappoints you at times, does she not?_ Perhaps. _Yet you love her all the same._ Silence. And the silence means yes. _You want the best for her._ The silence speaks again. _You do what is best for her, even when she does not realize it is for her own good. She has hurt you terribly, hasn't she. You were right that night we talked. I will do as you suggested. I see now how I was wrong. Do not let it make you sad. She will learn, as I have learned. I will help her understand._

He went away confused. He had deliberately planned to be frightening but had relented. He had been _polite_. Oh yes! Very polite. He had actually _apologized_ for the misunderstanding without sarcasm. Apologized! When had he done that before? And then... the boy's questions were absurd! Everything he said was true, but at the end he reached some strange conclusion about himself. What could that possibly mean? And why had he, Erik, stood there within the wall answering the boy's questions? And what was Anton going to help Christine understand? When Erik hid behind walls and spoke to mortals, _he_ was the transcendent being, not the other way around! But this conversation had carefully probed all his feelings about Christine and left him bewildered. It had been Anton's voice, but if he hadn't known better for certain, he would have considered that it was like talking with an all-knowing superior supernatural creature. What was happening to him, indeed? Frustrated, he smacked himself in his masked forehead with the heel of his hand and regretted it instantly. Those open areas had not entirely healed, and this one was still tender. Grumbling, he trudged back to the cellars.

Elizabeth had not returned and Erik was, though disappointed, not surprised. He attributed it to the gruesome addition of seeping sores to a face already unbearable to everyone else. He had no way of knowing that her fake smile had remained only until she reached the hotel at which time she had fallen to pieces. It would not have mattered had she been alone, for she could pull herself together after a time, certainly. But her doctor friends were beginning to worry at the many recent changes in her behavior. Her usually calm demeanor was sometimes broken by angry irritable words usually hurled at Wilhelm for some imagined slight. Her attitude, her style of dress, her choice of hairstyle, everything had changed about her since they had seen her last, and, as they could not understand and appreciate the cause of the change, they assumed the worst. She'd acquired a strange tendency to gaze into the distance and let her mind wander at the most inappropriate times. Worst of all, she would tell no one what was on her mind. It was only natural they should worry.

As a result, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to get away on her own. Wilhelm, who had the room next door to hers at the Hotel Royal, watched her comings and her goings closely and accompanied her nearly everywhere. They spent the majority of their time at Salpetriere Hospital and whatever time they did spend in recreation, they did together. She would stand up to him and send him away soon enough, but for the moment she was biding her time, waiting for the right moment, which never seemed to come. Hence, her only hope of visiting the Opera again, then, was to insist that he arrange to buy tickets for opening night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ which had been advertised cryptically and which everyone in the city hoped to attend, if not to find out what it was really about, then simply to see what had become of the once-beloved Opera.

* * *

The day before opening night, Erik suddenly emerged from the trap door in the floor of Nadir's office. He presented himself as serious and stable, standing erect and speaking plainly. "I need your help in the torture chamber immediately."

Nadir cringed. Now was not the time for what they had both repeatedly forgotten to come back to haunt them! "Who is in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with fear.

Erik's eyes were confused a moment. "No one is in there," he said at last. "It is time to destroy it."

"To_day_? Can it not wait a few more days? Today is by far the worst day..." he trailed off looking about on his desk for something he had misplaced.

"It cannot."

"Why must it be done today?"

"Because the _Don Juan_ opens tomorrow."

"What has that got to do with anything? We can disassemble it anytime, you know. In fact, I—" he stopped speaking abruptly as Erik's fist intersected the wall. Nadir stepped away and lifted his hands slightly. It had not been a cold, calculated smash intended to frightened Nadir into submission. Something terrible had broken inside of Erik and he was trembling as he faced the wall. He had apparently not been as stable as he'd pretended as he was nearly out of control now. "All right, let's work this out then," Nadir said softly from his place by the wall. "If it is that important to you—"

"It is _critical_," Erik said, but his voice was strained as though he used ever ounce of his restraint not to scream it. And he must have, for his hands suddenly flew across Nadir's desk in a violent motion sending piles of papers and ledgers to the floor, then grabbed one another in a desperate attempt to hold each other still and shook mightily.

"I apologize, Erik. I didn't realize how important. Let us go right away, then."

Nadir edged toward the door but declined to step past the barely under-control Erik who responded tersely, _"We must do it today. You could not disassemble it without me. Something terrible might happen to you."_

When Erik indicated the trap in the floor by opening it, Nadir did not dare argue. He locked his door so no one would notice his having mysteriously vanished from within his office and followed Erik quickly.

* * *

They worked rapidly, each man with his thoughts upon the many things he needed to accomplish when this task was completed. They removed the mirrored panels easily. "Take care not to break them," Erik told Nadir.

"Superstitions are contagious, then, Erik?"

"Erik turned and regarded Nadir as though he were stupid. At last he said "No, they are valuable solid mirrors. You may find a use for them. As for me, I have none." He gazed at one which showed numerous scratches and stars at waist level and below. Joseph Buquet, no doubt. His ghost would continue to haunt him, at least until tomorrow. He looked at the panel more carefully, then reached up to touch a crack high above his head. Just about as high as he could reach. Could this be the place where he had tried the heel of his own shoe in a desperate attempt to escape his own device?

Nadir passed by behind him with another piece of the mirrored wall in his hands. Erik looked around. Half the mirrors were gone with only bare walls behind where they had once been. He remembered building the device. What _had_ he been thinking? Had he really been so terrible?

When all the mirrors were gone, Erik set to work to disable the light while Nadir worked at permanently sealing the hole in the ceiling that descended from between the abandoned piece of scenery and the set piece. Nadir worked from above and could have simply gone back to the office when he finished, but he thought of something else and returned to the house on the lake. The light had been removed, but Erik was tearing at the wiring desperately as though he believed it could be a danger all on its own without the maddening light. Nadir busied himself at the door with something he had brought Erik from above, and when Erik at last descended the ladder from his work with the wiring, Nadir suddenly sought his attention.

"Look Erik," Nadir called, pointing to the door.

Erik stared in confusion at a knob.

"You see? Now that you do not wish to have a torture chamber in your house any longer, you shall have another room. You see? There is a knob on the inside now. Though I am not certain what you might do with it, its being inside a bedroom like this. Perhaps—well, I really don't know, actually. Even so. I found the knob and it seemed a good idea. Even without the mirrors, one would still be terribly unfortunate to accidentally lock oneself in this room."

Erik gave Nadir a fake smile, then realized Nadir could not see it through the silk mask. "That is very nice, Daroga," he said. He tried to sound sincere. The reality was he knew he would have no use for another room. After tomorrow he would have little for the rooms he already had.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I think it's an okay chapter. It doesn't hold a candle to chapter 90, but hey, that chapter EXHAUSTED me. Anyway... well... I guess I'd like to see if anyone is "onto me" in terms of this chapter. I'm going out of my way to be subtle.


	95. Chapter 95: Opening

**Author's Note****:** I was going to post the author's note and _then_ the chapter, but I decided to change it around some. I'm posting _this_ chapter now, then in a couple of hours I'll come back and post a ridiculously long author's note. Tomorrow or Sunday, I'll post the chapter that comes _after_ the author's note.

**Standard Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is Leroux-based, including the Persian. I called him Nadir only based on your votes.

* * *

Erik extended a long bony hand to the boy, who gripped it enthusiastically and squeezed it and pumped his arm until Erik stopped him by drawing his hand away. The grin on Anton's face was really just too much. Opening night, first lead role, yes, yes, it was exciting, but this was far too much outward expression of joy. Erik tried to smile at him through the rubber mask which was lightly held with one of the lesser adhesives. He'd fully intended to use the stronger substance for it wouldn't matter what it did to the skin anymore after tonight, but he found that it burned so badly that he could not bear it and used this instead.

Anton and Erik exchanged all the usual pleasantries and kindnesses a person might have expected had neither of the parties been Erik. Anton's enthusiasm was hard to resist as well as hard to believe considering he knew what Erik _really_ was. At last Erik asked him how much he remembered from that evening below.

"I remember every word of it. I made certain I couldn't forget. I wrote everything down as soon as the headache went away."

"Not what you _heard_. What you _saw._" Erik's voice revealed a bit of trepidation.

"I remember," Anton said plainly. "I remember well enough to be able to say that my mask hardly does you justice."

Erik let out a breath of air that was half laugh, half scoff, but he smiled at the boy and reached out to tousle his hair as though he were a small child. Anton allowed it and even put his head down and forward a little. Strange boy.

"There is something I want to ask you," he said when he raised his head again. "I know now is not the best time. Perhaps we could talk tomorrow? Or later tonight? After?"

Erik's smile faded. "Now _would_ be the best time," he said seriously. "Especially if you consider it important."

Anton smiled, nodded, and eased himself into a chair. Apparently this was going to take a while Erik noted and sat as well.

"I wanted to talk to you about Christine," he began nervously. "I—I think I—well, I have been thinking about some of the things that I said that night, and I may have given you the wrong idea. I said some terrible things about women and about marriage. And I did not want you to think that I am anything less than a gentleman. I am young. Too young, I think, for marriage. Even so, I very much enjoy spending time with Christine. I just want you to know that I would never ever do anything unseemly and—" he paused. It was getting harder and harder to say since he _wasn't actually asking the question_.

"I do not begrudge you time with her if that is what you mean," Erik interjected.

Anton's smile spread to his ears. "So it is acceptable then? It will be a long time, though, Monsieur, before—" he stopped again.

Erik raised a bony finger. "Do not hurt her," he instructed. "She needs someone to take care of her."

"Oh, absolutely Monsieur."

Erik found it most awkward when Anton bowed to him. "Please," he said, extending his hand again instead.

Anton caught it quickly and shook it hard. "Thank you Monsieur. I shan't disappoint you. I promise you that." Then he ran off. Erik remained in the office waiting for Nadir to bring Christine. Fancy that, he thought. The boy was asking his permission! Perhaps if that other boy had considered asking his permission, things would have been different, he reflected. But no. _This _boy was different somehow...

* * *

It was not long before Christine arrived, already dressed. She waited politely until Nadir closed the door and then threw herself into Erik's arms. "Oh, God, Erik! I thought I would never see you again! How glad I am to see you!" She was disappointed that he was wearing the rubber mask for she had hoped to show him how she would not flinch, would not even notice his face at all if he removed his mask. She wanted to show him how she could kiss him full on what lips he had and never even shiver. Poor Erik! How could she possibly show him now with this thing glued in place? She grasped one of his hands and kissed it. "Oh Erik! Erik, can you ever forgive me?" She caressed his hands, his terrible skeletal hands, and she kissed them. Then she fell to her knees at his feet, sobbing. "It wasn't true what I said to you, Erik, it wasn't true, I didn't mean it, I take it back, forgive me! It is my fault, Erik. I am a wretched, wretched woman! But forgive me, Erik! Please! Forgive me!"

"Christine," and his voice was soft, kind and accepting—the voice of a wise man at the end of his life, one who has seen enough to know all. "The truth is nothing to forgive. I was angry for a time. There is not time enough left to be angry now. I understand." He held out his hands. "I admit they are rather unsettling."

"No! No, Erik, that was only true before I knew you. That day... I came to you... in the house on the lake..." her voice was coming in gasps between her sobs now "I said it... only... because I was angry... that you sent me... away." She dissolved into tears clutching at the fabric of his trousers, wrapping her arms about his legs, her tears falling upon his shoes. At last she caught her breath and looked up at him. He was staring down at her seriously. "Erik," she said breathily, "All you ever wanted of me was love, and I was too terrible to give it to you. But I am ready now, Erik. I am ready now. And I do love you."

"Christine," he said, leaning down to gently unwind her from about his legs, "Thank you."

She stared up at him. He wasn't going to say he loved her? Why, when had that changed? "You really don't forgive me then!"

"Oh, Christine, do not say such things. I do and I have. You know I always have. Stop this now. Stand up. You'll get your lovely dress all dirty."

"Erik, please!"

Oh, how he hated to see her cry. He had always hated to see her cry. "Christine, it would never be like it was."

"It would be better," she responded. "And you were right about the mask. People shan't even turn 'round in the streets. And we shall sing until we swoon—" She was getting utterly caught up in his promises of the past.

He looked into her eyes and could almost see a trace of his own desperation there. Now at last she understood, but oh, Christine, it is too late! And the mask? She had mentioned this mask! It was decidedly _not_ what he most wanted to hear. What did he want to hear? Come to think of it, he could hardly be certain. Perhaps nothing. Yes, that was it. He wanted to hear nothing. First the _music_, then _nothing at all_. Poor Christine! Poor unhappy Christine.

"Christine, I have to go away after this. I will not be here. There will be no walking in the streets, no singing, no swooning. I have done you a terrible disservice to have ever taken you through that mirror. You would have been much better off with lessons from an angel and a real human boy to court you. I have ruined it all for you, all the way down to your wedding. And you were right, Christine. I would have refused to participate in that wedding, but that was wrong of me as well. If it were possible I would be honored to stand at your wedding. As it stands now, it is not possible, as I have to go away." She grasped his bony hands and tried to ask him where he was going, but he would not allow her to interrupt. "In the meantime, you shall not be alone, Christine, dear. Have you noticed Anton Kuznetsov? He cares for you very much. You should rather give him a chance, I think. He is quite at a lot more attractive than I, and I daresay he sings almost as well."

Christine drew back. Erik? Was it really Erik? He did not want her any more, and he was _suggesting someone else?_ She could not even explain it away as having been a dream, for even in her dreams Erik was possessive and controlling. And pitiful. And cried. He was a different man entirely now, and though she wanted to love him to prove that she could be all he had wanted her to be, she felt _she knew him not at all._ She shook her head.

"Poor unhappy Christine," Erik said aloud. "He would teach you how to smile. He has such joy for life. I could not give you that. You know I do not have it to give. There was a time I thought we might find it together, but it was foolishness, Christine. There is so much more to being husband and wife than a little flat and walks on Sundays. There is so much more to marriage than singing. Think on that, Christine. Think on _me_. You would not really have wanted _all that_, would you? No. Give this boy a chance. He at least has a chance of understanding. And he has _joy_."

"But I don't... want..." How stupid it sounded! Not to want joy!

"Christine, please. You must stop crying now. If I had known this would upset you so, I would not have agreed to see you at all. You mustn't ruin yourself for tonight." She took a deep breath, trembled and started to pull herself together. "You say you love me now, Christine?" She nodded miserably. "If this is true, tonight, please do not let me down. Tonight is the most important night of my life." She didn't understand his meaning but she nodded emphatically. Whatever he wanted. She would please him.

He smiled. "You will be stunning tonight. In no way should you let our conversation interfere. Please." He reached out with his bony fingers and touched her cheek. She willed herself not to withdraw and even leaned her head into his hand a bit. It was here at last that his voice finally broke and he was almost Erik as she remembered him. "I need you to do this for me, Christine," he said softly. And he kissed her on the forehead with his terrible false lips and walked away leaving her still on her knees, sitting back on her heels on the floor of the office, tears streaming down her face.

* * *

At Elizabeth's insistence, she was present at the Opera that night. Wilhelm insisted upon escorting her. He paid what he considered to be an exorbitant sum for the tickets for he himself was not at all fond of opera. He expressed concern when she suggested she go alone and absolutely declined to allow Elizabeth to pay for her own ticket as she requested saying it was ungentlemanly. Elizabeth viewed this as controlling and considered it a means to hold something over her and to make sure she was exactly where she said she would be. She wore an expression of absolute calm as they were led to their seats, but her eyes moved nervously about the people in the amphitheatre, hoping for a glimpse of someone who might be Erik. Alas, she did not see him and perhaps would not have recognized him in his rubber mask if she had.

* * *

Erik wore his realistic mask for the last time. He was not entirely healed from having worn it continuously that time, but a few hours at the Opera could not possibly have much consequence, and even if it did, it wouldn't matter anyway after tonight.

Patrons were led to their seats by a number of ushers and box keepers, but Nadir saw Erik to box five himself. Madame Giry, though she had been asked to return, was assigned to an area far away. No seats in box five had been sold, but no one spoke of the ghost tonight. Box five was, of course, empty when Nadir led Erik to it, entering by the door. In a moment he would be seated in the first row rather than remaining in the hollow pillar until after the first act. Erik paused at the door and closed his eyes to savor the moment. It was the first time since construction was completed that he'd ever entered _through the door_. It would be the first time he would watch a performance start to finish rather than arriving in the middle of an act. It was the first opening night on which he was treated like a real human being. It would also be the last, he thought, feeling the vial in his left coat pocket. The box would remain empty but for him tonight, for the Persian _always_ respected his wishes. Ah, Nadir. He would be rewarded handsomely for his troubles.

Erik turned to him. It would not be easy, but it was important. He opened his mouth but the words did not come out at first. At last he managed, "Thank you," and Nadir simply nodded.

Though Nadir and Erik were close in age, Nadir had the sensation of tending to one far older than himself. Erik seemed suddenly feeble, and, like the times that he had cried and the times that he had withdrawn, Nadir felt a combination of awkward discomfort and desire to protect him. Erik was quiet. _Very_ quiet. He hadn't said much at all since the dismantling of the torture chamber.

But he was holding out his hand. Those hands! thought Nadir, looking at the bony appendage that protruded from the dress coat. Erik was so self-conscious about them! This would surely mean the world to him. Nadir grasped the hand warmly and ignored the chill of the yellow skin stretched drum-tight over the bones. He smiled into Erik's eyes. Then Erik's left arm was around his shoulder and drew him in for a quick gentlemanly embrace and released him again rapidly. But he kept hold of Nadir's right hand.

"I have behaved very badly," Erik said and drew a deep breath. "You have done everything I have asked and far more and I have not even paid you for your troubles." Nadir opened his mouth to respond but Erik silenced him with a look "It is shameful, and I apologize. You said once you would be proud to call me a friend." He shook his head. "I have not been a friend to you at all, but you have clearly been a friend to me. Thank you for all you have done for me, over all these years. Yes. All. Even the things for which I threatened to kill you. Even for bringing Raoul to Christine that night. Everything. You deserve far more than this, and you shall have it. Thank you again. Goodbye Nadir." He withdrew his hand and slipped into the box, closing the door behind him.

A few steps down the staircase Nadir paused, his hand upon the rail. _Had Erik just called him Nadir?_

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** This is the Saturday chapter that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to post. I am also posting a rather long-ish author's note as the next chapter. Do not be alarmed. It does not say that the story stops here. Indeed. It does not stop here. The author's note that is posted at chapter 96, though, is critical to understanding chapters 97, 98 and 99, unless you a) have already read the complete and unabridged translation by either Wolf of Lofficier or b) you don't really care to understand where I got my ideas for _Don Juan_. Naturally I'll understand if no one reviews the author's note, but before you click ahead, please _do_ leave a comment for _this_ one, unless you can't think of anything to say.


	96. Author's Note

**Author's Note****:** LOL! This WHOLE CHAPTER is one big long author's note! But PLEASE do read it before you click ahead to the next chapter because unless you have read the Wolf of Lofficier translations of the Leroux, chapter 96 won't make any sense without it.

**IF YOU HAVE NOT READ CHAPTER 95 BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT THIS NOTICE AND CLICKED RIGHT ON IT THINKING THAT YOU GOT A DOUBLE ALERT BY ACCIDENT, GO BACK AND READ CHAPTER 95 AS I JUST POSTED IT ABOUT 2 MINUTES BEFORE I POSTED THIS NOTE!! **

REALLY IMPORTANT--THE CHAPTER IS **BEFORE** THIS NOTE, NOT AFTER IT. It's called "Chapter 95: Opening Night"

* * *

There has been a great deal of speculation about Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_ and many questions about whether I was going to repeat the Andrew Lloyd Webber version of _Don Juan _when I got to that part here and whether Erik would attempt to abduct Christine during that same scene and so forth, so before I actually reveal to you what I have come up with, I should tell you on what it is based.

I've tried to be a Leroux purist throughout this particular piece. Once or twice a bit of musical crept in when I accidentally mentioned Madam Giry where I shouldn't have, referred to Erik's having sculpted Christine, and once I accidentally mentioned Christine's second unmasking of Erik, which didn't happen in the book. All those things I have either already corrected or will correct upon completion, so please consider this pure Leroux. Therefore, I must base my version of _Don Juan_ on what Leroux tells us Erik actually said, and he didn't say much. Christine tells us a bit as well, but even that is just her speculation.

The translation I worked with originally (the one that is often accepted as the "standard" translation) is not complete and unabridged. Having read only that version, I thought I could make Don Juan whatever I wanted it to be. In an effort to be true to the title, though, I did some research on the original Don Juan story. Then, in a conversation iwith rappleyea I revealed a bit of what I was going to do only to find that it did not entirely comply with what Erik had said of his own work.

Only after borrowing the complete and unabridged translations from rappleyea (to whom I am eternally indebted!) did I even begin to understand what _Don Juan_ might be. Quite likely, it's not an opera at all but either the score of a symphony or a chorus. Even so, I really felt like it needed to be an opera for this particular story, and so an opera it is. It is no ordinary opera, however, for Erik does not respect ordinary opera, as evidenced by the portion which reads _Let us sing opera songs, Christine Daaé. He said, 'let us sing opera songs' as if he were spewing insults at me!_ (according to editor Leonard Wolf, "we get some sense of Erik's contempt for the contemporary opera-going public's taste by this sarcastic comment.)

* * *

So what does Erik have to say about _Don Juan_? This:

"_Never ask me to do that" play something from _Don Juan Triumphant_ "This _Don Juan_ was not written to go with the words of Don Lorenzo La Point the librettist of _Don Giovanni_, Mozart's version of Don Juan inspired by wine and the trivial loves and vices that God finally punishes. I'll play you Mozart, if you like, Christine, to start your lovely tears flowing and inspire you with honorable thoughts. But my _Don Juan_ sears, Christine, and yet is not struck down by the fires of Heaven." _(Wolf, )

"_You must never ask me that", he said in a somber voice. "My _Don Juan_ was not written to follow the words of a Lorenzo d'Aponte; he is not motivated by wine, trivial affairs and petty vices before finally being punished by God. I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep and think pleasant, pure thoughts. But my Don Juan, Christine, burns—yet his is not struck by the fire from Heaven!"_

* * *

Later Erik says:

_You see, Christine, there is a music that is so horrifying that it consumes all those who come near it. Luckily for you, you have not yet experienced it, because it would make you lose your fresh coloring and no one would recognize you on your return to Paris._ (Wolf, )

_You see, Christine, there is some music that is so horrifying it consumes all those who hear it. Fortunately, you have not yet discovered that kind of music, for if you had, you would lose your pretty colors and no one would recognize you when you return to Paris. _(Lofficier, p. 184)

* * *

Finally, after Christine tears off his mask, Erik crawls away to his room and Christine describes what she hears from outside:

_Made frantic by the thought of the fate that awaited me, and terrified that I might see his door opening and see again the monster's unmasked face, I crept into my own room, where I seized a pair of scissors with which to put an end to my dreadful destiny, when I heard the sounds of an organ. It was then that I began to understand Erik's contempt for what he called opera music—a contempt that had stupefied me. What I heard now had nothing to do with the sort of music that had charmed me until that day. His _Don Juan Triumphant_ (and there was no doubt in my mind that he had immersed himself in his masterpiece in order to forget the horror of the present); his _Don Juan Triumphant_ seemed to me to be nothing but a long, terrible, and magnificent sob into which poor Erik had put all of his cursed misery. _

_I saw again the notebook with its red notes and it was easy for me to imagine that the notes had been written in blood. That music showed me martyrdom in every detail; it led me into every part of the abyss, the abyss in which a loathsome man lived. It showed me Erik beating his poor hideous head against the funereal walls of that hell, and taking refuge there so that he could avoid terrifying men by the sight of him. I watched, devastated, gasping, pitying, and overwhelmed by the swelling of those gigantic chords where Sorrow had been deified. And then there were sounds that rose from the abyss and, gathered together, made a prodigious and menacing flight forming a whirling troop that seemed to mount upward toward heaven as the eagle rises to the sun. Such a triumphal symphony seemed to set the world ablaze so that I understood the work was finally finished and Ugliness, lifted on the winds of Love, had dared to look into the face of Beauty._ (Wolf .)

_Panicking at the thought of the fate he had promised me, terrified by the perspective seeing the door to the coffin room open, and to again see the Monster without his ms, I found refuge in my own room. I grabbed the scissors and was contemplating putting an end to my own, miserable destiny... when suddenly I heard the sound of the organ..._

_It was then, dearest Raoul, that I began to understand Erik's earlier contempt when he had spoke of Opera music. What I now heard was utterly different from anything I had heard before hat day. His Don Juan Triumphant (for I had no doubt that he had rushed to his masterpiece forget the horror of the moment) at first sounded like one long, awful, magnificent sob in which poor Erik had poured all his accursed misery._

_I remembered the music book covered with the scrawled notes in red ink and I easily imagine that those notes had been written in his own blood. The music took me through every agonizing detail of his martyrdom. It showed me every nook and cranny of the abyss, the abyss where the hideous man lived. It portrayed Erik painfully bumping his poor, repulsive head against the sinister walls of his personal hell, until he found refuge where he would not longer frighten ordinary beings. I stood, stunned, breathless, pitiful and defeated by the eruption of those formidable chords that turned his Pain itself into something divine. Then, the sounds that rose from the abyss suddenly gathered into a huge, threatening flight, rising up into the air like an eagle climbing towards the Sun. That triumphant symphony decisively set the whole world aflame and I understood it was over, that Ugliness, transported on the wings of Love had dared look Beauty in the face!__(Lofficier, p. 189)_

* * *

That's all Leroux gave me to work with. In the meantime, I read _The Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest_ by Tirso de Molina (the first of many times a play was written based on the Don Juan story) and _Don Juan_ by Moliere. All of the characters (except Eva) in my version of Erik's Don Juan are named after characters from either the de Molina or the Moliere versions. I also read _Don Juan_ by Lord Byron, but didn't really use much from it. As I said, Eva is the only character that I did not borrow from de Molina or Moliere. I named her Eva because Eva is like Eve and I wanted to make the connection to all women. There is a character named Amita in my version, but she is NOT from the Webber version. In the original Don Juan by Tirso de Molina, Don Juan attempts to seduce Amita but is unsuccessful. Her attempts to resist him awaken her father, who comes to rescue her. As Don Juan flees, her father apprehends him. In an effort to get away, Don Juan kills him. Later, passing through the cemetery, he taunts the statue of him that was placed at his grave by pulling its beard and inviting it to supper at his home. Imagine his surprise when it actually arrives! It does not eat or drink (reminds me of Erik when seated at a table, actually!) but invites _him_ to dine with him the following night. Don Juan, in order not to appear a coward, goes to the cemetery the following night. The statue grasps him by the hand and throws him down to hell.

In a later version, the Amita character (who I believe has a different name in that version) has forgiven Don Juan and struggles to pull him to heaven instead and succeeds.

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Anyway, what you have in the next chapter is a bit of what I came up with based on trying to merge everything I read. It was not easy to do and came out a bit choppy, but I think it works with the rest of the story that's told here, especially the part about... Nah... I'll just wait and let you see. Oh yes!! And remember that Anton told Christine that there is a little bit of an influence of Faust. Yeah. Faust is in there, too. I just had to work that in since it was in the Leroux so much.

Anyway, I highly I recommend both the translations I mentioned because they both contain all the stuff that got cut from the original English translation. I prefer Wolf over L'officier in most places, but not in all. Don Juan plays, I recommend those too, though they are not _quite_ as much fun as POTO. At any rate, they are far less heart-wrenching, anyway.

So, now that this is the longest author's note in the history of FFN (nearly 1000 words all by itself!) I am debating whether to post it as it's very own chapter and deciding that that is probably the best thing to do. So... Click "NEXT" to see the actual chapter, and enjoy. I do hope Erik would believe I did his work justice. If you don't hear from me, assume I was strangled in my sleep for getting a detail wrong.

BHC

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**Regarding Reviews****:** Ummm... I won't feel bad if you don't bother to review this because it really wasn't a chapter, but if you want to say hi or something, feel free. I will have the next chapter--the one where Don Juan Triumphant actually begins up as soon as I can. Today is Saturday and my Sunday is pretty well booked. I imagine I will work on getting the next chapter out to you by Monday night or Tuesday afternoon at the latest. Until then, Cheers!

**IMPORTANT!!** IF MY POSTING A CHAPTER AND A LONG NOTE AT ONCE CONFUSED FFN ENOUGH THAT YOU ENDED UP READING THIS NOTE **WITHOUT** READING ERIK'S INTERACTION WITH ANTON, CHRISTINE AND NADIR ON **OPENING NIGHT**, THEN YOU HAVE **MISSED A CHAPTER** AND SHOULD **GO BACK TO CHAPTER 95** SO YOU'RE NOT LOST WHEN I TRY TO REFER BACK TO THOSE THINGS! THAT CHAPTER AND THIS NOTE WERE POSTED **SIMULTANEOUSLY**, SO IT'S POSSIBLE YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A DOUBLE ALERT FOR THE SAME CHAPTER BY ACCIDENT.

REALLY IMPORTANT--THE CHAPTER IS **BEFORE** THIS NOTE, NOT AFTER IT. It's called "Chapter 95: Opening Night"

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	97. Chapter 97: Act I

**Author's Note(s)****:** This one is short, but it seemed the right place to break it.

In the meantime, I am concerned that there are more hits for the author's note than for chapter 95 itself. Now, MAYBE it means that people who don't have those translations are just re-reading them out of curiosity, but I FEAR it might be that some folks just immediately went to the LAST thing I posted, which was the author's note, and maybe MISSED the chapter. So... if you have not read chapter 95—the one where it's opening night and Erik has conversations with Anton, Christine and Nadir (all separately of course) then you should go BACK because if you don't know what Erik is thinking at the end of chapter 95, this chapter may not make sense.

**Disclaimer****:** The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is Leroux based (even the Persian. Just... ignore the fact that he's called Nadir.)

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Yes, Nadir deserved far more, and he would get it. Erik's will was in the fifth cellar inside the coffin with the original copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Both would be found when they opened it to put him inside when they found him after the performance. Ah, _Don Juan Triumphant_! At last it would be _performed_.

It was strange, though, for parts of it seemed to be coming true. No, he would never have what Don Juan had during act three, but he'd had the slightest taste of it on the way to the box this evening. He and Nadir had passed through the area backstage since he was safely disguised in his rubber mask. He hadn't clearly thought it through though. His natural face was disguised, but his rubber identity had become rather well known and, to his absolute consternation, well liked. First he was mobbed by a group of chorus girls who smiled and curtsied and commented that it was good to have him back at last! was he doing well? they hoped so! Before he could recover from the shock of it, a line of ladies of the corps de ballet went by, each stopping for just a few seconds to utter a few words.

A tall, thin, but shapely brunette stepped closer than propriety allowed and purred that she was very pleased to see him and that if there was anything at all she could do for him to let her know. He stared at her is disbelief and she laughed, not a high immature giggle but a mature sound that conveyed seduction rather than humor. Standing high on her pointe shoes she was as tall as he was as she cast a surreptitious glance at the other girls, then dared to put her arms around the manager's shoulders moving her body close to his rather than bending forward at the waist. "Come to my dressing room after if you wish," she murmured. Her breath was warm and soft on his ear. He glanced at Nadir in alarm, but Nadir's eyes were elsewhere. Then she was gone and he watched her retreating pink form as the next girl greeted him with a curtsy. And then next, and the next, until the one who tightly gripped both his hands saying sincerely, "Oh, thank heavens you have returned to us. May evil remain far from you. I pray for you ever night, Monsieur." The statement was overly religious, yes, but the look in her eyes was not. He drew back slightly. Then she was gone as well and the line of girls continued, seemingly forever, each making some very kind comment that seem to convey more than mere kindness.

"Let's _go_ please," Erik urged Nadir, who seemed oblivious but at last obliged him. Yes. It had been odd indeed. It made him think act three a little far-fetched after all, even for the stage. After all, if Don Juan were he (and he was) he would have surely died of... joy? fear? _sensory overload?_ As it was, a hug from a ballerina and some warm air on his ear had nearly resulted in a faint. _That_ would have been beyond embarrassing. The Opera Ghost was supposed to make the dancers faint, not the other way around! And yet, he was not really the Opera Ghost anymore. One more identity lost, he thought sadly. It had rather been one of his favorites. It certainly had a pleasanter sound than Living Corpse. He shuddered. Oh! Look on what he had squandered his life and talents!

But he had not squandered it all away, no. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was worthy; that was for certain. It remained to be seen whether the population of Paris would agree, but it didn't matter if they did or did not. That was not why they were here. They were here because some music consumes all who come near it, and these people's lives had been far too pleasant removed from the horrors of his own reality.

Don Juan Triumphant_! I began that work twenty years ago_. To think! He'd never expected to see it performed, and now—here! tonight!—on the stage in his very own opera house that he'd built with his own hands. His masterpiece, on stage being performed within his masterpiece. He should have been elated. Instead he was filled with a calm sense of resignation that at last he had done all he could to in a world that had not accepted him. Perhaps when he was dead and buried those who had seen it performed could at last understand his misery. At the very least perhaps Christine... and perhaps Anton would understand. Certainly a few members of the audience, if not all. They could tell others. People would someday change. His life would not have been entirely in vain. Not entirely, anyway. _Only mostly_.

_When I have finished, I shall take it away with me in that coffin and never wake up again. _Ah, but it was so much better this way, was it not? This way the world would share in his pain and with a little luck they would never, ever forget. A bit of each of them would die tonight. It was a far better plan that blowing up the Opera had been that night he'd issued the ultimatum to Christine. That had been a plan conceived in desperation. Killing people was certainly memorable, certainly made a point, but would not teach anything to the superficial world that had rejected him, and any pain it would cause would last only a instant. This, however... this was a burning they would savor, share, and ultimately never forget.

Anton was splendidly hideous in his rubber mask. He was so ghastly Erik almost could not bear to look upon him. It was truly as bad as looking in a mirror. There was a certain irony in sitting in his box, his hideous face encased in this construction that made him look like anyone else, while before him a very handsome young man wore a mask made of the very same substance, and it made him look like a monster. And Anton had managed it entirely, though whether as a result of his natural talents or of his encounters with Erik one could only speculate. When he sobbed it was utterly realistic, and when he sang, it was clear that he had taken Erik's advice. That night, even Erik could not find fault.

And Christine! Ah, Christine was exquisite, as always. Without a doubt Erik could not bear the sound of her. He turned his eyes away and a tear rolled down his rubber cheek. At last, after all they'd been through, he'd reached the end of his life and the sound her voice still brought him to tears every time. Ah, but at least he had at last surrendered to the fact that she could not belong to him much as she claimed it were possible now. Ah, she'd been so sweet when she'd come to see him. Poor girl. She would not get over this. She might blame herself, he considered, and he felt some guilt for it. A few months ago, he wanted to cause her guilt and pain, but now he wished for nothing but her happiness. This would negatively impact it for certain, but she would survive. Anton would see to that, he rather expected. Anton could provide her a home and be a suitable husband without asking her to sacrifice her music. Of course, he was not ready. He was young still. And yet, he should consider the joy of having a wife and family. Life, was, after all, not so very long. Ah, he would come around eventually. He was, indeed, perfect for her. She _would_ get over this after all. It wouldn't hurt her so badly. She wouldn't be alone.

Erik felt ashamed at having criticized Anton so badly, even in his own mind that first day at the audition, and afterwards. He was an amazing singer _and_ an amazing actor, he thought now as he watched him portraying all the grief and agony he'd lived with all his life. How could someone who had never felt it possibly understand well enough to do this? He shook his head. The boy was amazing. Christine would be very lucky.

But it pained him so to watch her on stage, as Eva, utterly rejecting the boy as she, as herself, had utterly rejected _him_ in life. It was not hard to imagine that the horror on her face at the terrifying mask was not scripted but genuine, for she looked genuinely terrified as the poor hideous creature reached for her, yearned for her, cried for her. From his position safe in box five, Erik could not gauge the audience's reaction to this. He could not see their faces and they could not see his. From his position safe and alone in box five, he did not have to hide his own tears.

Below him Elizabeth was in tears as well (as she was rather frequently of late) over Erik, seeing him so accurately portrayed that it was difficult to believe it was not he himself. Naturally, Wilhelm was taking advantage of that fact to suggest that perhaps she was ill and it was not a good night at all for the opera. They should go home. She could stay with him, if she wished.

And beside the stage Nadir was still puzzling over the Erik's peculiar speech at the door to the box. Goodnight, Nadir, he'd said. Had Erik _ever_ called him by his name before tonight? Goodnight, Nadir... Goodnight, Nadir... No. That was not what he had said. Goodbye Nadir, it was. Goodbye. Nadir looked towards box five. _Goodbye?_

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**Shameless Begging****:** Okay. We've finally gotten to the important part. I really need to hear your thoughts! (Oh yes... and those of you who have been asking what Erik would or would not do? All I can say is that Erik himself claimed that no one can restrain Erik, not even Erik. What does that tell you? Very little, I suppose...


	98. Chapter 98: Act II

**Author's Note****:** Here is act two. Since it's short, I will post act three, which is also short, right away, if possible. By right away I mean either the SAME DAY or the NEXT DAY.

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

**Quick note for Ash****:** I apologize for the story not being complete. I would have written back to let you know that when I got your last review, but it came up as a not-logged-in review. I did respond a little in the review pages myself—that's what I do to respond to folks who aren't logged in—but as to telling you when to expect updates, all I can say is that I LIKE to post daily, but because of the rest of life, it usually ends up being more like 2 to 3 times a week. The best way to get the updates from all your favorite stories is to become a member, log in, and sign up for story or author alerts. That way you get an email every time I (or any other author you designate) post something. As to the VERY next chapter, chapter 99, I can tell you it will probably be up before midnight tonight (Wednesday, July 23, unless something strange comes up in my life).

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While the music was spectacular in and of itself, it was not the music that made the greatest impression upon the audience. No, while the music was in no way overshadowed, it did have to compete with the audience's reaction to the incredible costuming of the devil who came to Don Juan in his moment of utter despair.

On what real life event had that scene been based? Erik tried to remember. There was no many memories of desolation, it was difficult to choose one and say _This was the lowest point in my life_ for each time he had, another had surely occurred which made the first seem mild. So little joy!

The fictional Don Juan's lowest moment was brought about by his rejection by Eva. It was fitting, Erik reflected. In reality, it hadn't been one single rejection by one single person, but complete and total rejection by all of humanity. It should have been apparent from the words of Christine's aria at the end of act one that Eva was not merely Christine, but everyone. Even so, Erik idly wondered whether Christine herself knew. He had meant to tell her when they spoke. In fact, he'd had a little speech prepared in which he apologized to her for all he had done—yes, he had a bit of a list, actually. He had not expected such tears from her, and they had distracted him from his prepared utterance. He had also meant to clarify a few things. She had taken back what she said about him, but did that make it untrue or was she merely realizing that it had sounded cruel to say aloud? Did he really smell of death? Oh, how fitting it would have been for those Living Corpse years. He wondered if it was something that had always been true or a result of his decision to live underground. Or perhaps he was dying, naturally, anyway. The thought horrified him. It was ridiculous, he readily admitted in his thoughts. He had resolved to die and absolutely intended to so—_tonight_, actually! at _the end of the performance_—and yet he was horrified to consider that he might be dying anyway? But he knew what about it bothered him most immediately. He desperately needed control over something in his life, even if it was only his death. Of what, he wondered, might I be dying? But he pushed the thought away, not in fear, but because it was not worth missing even a moment of the conversation between Don Juan and the devil.

The devil might not be well received, Erik considered. Even _Faust_ had pushed the limits of some, and this was about to go far beyond _Faust_. The idea had come from a moment early in life but late at night—a moment in which he had given himself over to thinking that he would give anything to be like others. Anything. Yes, anything at all. And as anyone does when they succumb to thinking such thoughts, he had immediately followed it by going through a list of things he would be willing to give up. Yes, money if he'd had any. That was an easy thought, though at that young age he'd had so little. He had only just recently run away from home, had only just recently found a show with which he could travel where he would be treated well by comparison to his home life and to what he'd imagined from such places. Money was not so important to him. Certainly it was necessary for some things: to eat, for example. Still, he couldn't do much of that and still maintain he was a living corpse, and in time, it became second nature to go without. He found himself considering the lives of people he was supposed to care for. Surely he would trade his mother's life for an attractive face, he told himself, but the tears coursing down his cheeks insisted otherwise. The reality was that had the devil appeared to him that night, he'd have had nothing to offer. He couldn't have given up his music, could he? His intelligence? What else had he?

Ah, _a soul_, the devil on stage suggested. _A soul_, Erik scoffed from box five. Had he ever been certain he'd had one at all? Why, everyone had a soul, of course! But then, everyone had a face that looked like more than bone, did they not? Perhaps he had been born unfinished, a potential masterpiece whose artist suddenly died leaving the work incomplete. At what point in the process was the soul involved? Was it the final touch, wrapped around a living being like a regal robe after all else was perfected, or was it a tiny jewel around which the rest of the being was wrapped? Either way, it was possible his had simply been overlooked.

A soul, Don Juan on the stage agreed, for a soul was a worthless little thing. Surely he wasn't using it after all. It was hard to believe that any member of the human race had any use for one's own soul. When was the last time you remembered using yours? How could life be different without it? But with a face... _ah_, yes. _A face_. Ah, _yes_. That would surely make a difference!

Well, he had lied to Christine just a little perhaps. Hadn't he told her his Don Juan was not motivated by trivial things? Wasn't a face the most insignificant thing? Or it _would have been_ in a perfect world. Sadly everyone seemed to consider it so important, though. And even he had fallen into the trap. Poor Anton. How he had judged the boy unfairly!

It was difficult to gauge the reaction of the audience, but from what he could see below him, they appeared to be engaged. It was difficult to determine whether a person was offended or not without seeing his face (again! how important was a face!) but no one had left and they all seemed intent on the action before them. In fact, it seemed—he could not say how but it seemed—that the audience was worried. Yes. Sympathetic and worried. He could not have hoped for more. They had shown little sympathy to Faust, who had mastered everything and merely become bored—so bored that he dared to cross into the realm of necromancy—but for Don Juan who suffered before them, they seemed to have an infinite amount of pity.

Hypocrites he spat aloud in his box. Where was your mercy when the monster himself was before you? Yes, sympathy is easy to give when the creature is on stage and guaranteed not to approach you. It is infinitely harder when the thing comes begging at your door for shelter in a storm or for the scraps from your table. The kindest of souls occasionally offered refuge in a barn in exchange for a promise to be gone by morning and considered themselves holy for it.

Erik was bitter and angry watching the close of act two, his knuckles turning whiter still as he gripped the armrests of his chair, his yellow eyes shimmering beneath pools of unshed tears. Yes, Erik, go ahead and sell your soul. People are more likely to take in a soulless Adonis than a martyred but unsightly creature. _Go ahead, Erik; sell your soul,_ he was still repeating to himself as the house lights came up for the entre acte.

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**Shameless Begging****:** You know how I love the reviews, so don't hold back!! Hey, seriously, though—I know this one was short, but I wanted to break the acts up for the sake of clarity. The next chapter is not _quite_ complete (but it's close!) and is already longer than this one, so I hope to post it either tonight or tomorrow.


	99. Chapter 99: Entre Acte

**Author's Note****:** Oops! I told you I'd post Act III today, but I forgot about the intermission! That's a whole chapter in itself. Even so, I'll try to get Act III out as soon as possible. I know a lot of you want to read all of _Don Juan Triumphant_ as close together as possible.

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

**Many thanks****:** Reviews of late have been helpful, informative, supportive and downright emotional. Some days I am tempted to sit at the computer and hit reload all day just for that little burst of joy I feel when I get your comments. (I try not to do that, though, because it seems that I can sit for hours on end and the reviews don't come, then all the sudden a HUGE number all rush in at once and it's sensory overload like Erik with . Anyway... thanks for all your kind words. I sincerely do treasure every last one of them. To everyone who has mentioned being moved to tears, I will share something special with you next chapter to tell you how much that means to me, and to everyone who has ever suggested publication, I will tell you that you have all talked me into it so much that if I knew a single darn thing about it, I'd pursue it. But I don't. So for now, I'm just trying to finish. I can research it later, unless I get cold feet.

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Nadir waited impatiently by the side of the stage and cursed himself when Christine exited to the other side. How could he have forgotten a little detail like that after seeing act two more times over than he had ever cared to? He threw another glance toward box five. It was still occupied, anyway, so that was a good thing. He rather expected that Erik wouldn't leave the box during the intermission. He'd seemed positively uncomfortable in crowds; just a short walk through the backstage area had had him tugging Nadir's arm in a panicked fluster. It was certainly not the same Erik from Persia. Not even Erik from before the ordeal with Christine. Back then he had gone above ground rather regularly beginning around dusk. He visited the bank, the market, the tailor the jeweler... wherever. _My apartment_, thought Nadir. Erik had visited his apartment far more recently—shortly after tea with Christine, and Erik had apparently easily gone from the cellars to Christine's apartment, to Elizabeth's house and back to the cellars without any trouble at all. Why was he acting so excessively fearful all the sudden? Nadir was instantly suspicious. Any change in Erik was cause for suspicion. He had seemed downright joyful just before the tragedy involving Raoul and Christine, so an abrupt change in mood was an immediate warning signal to Nadir. Even so, the conversation at the door to the box was more disturbing still. Having at last hit upon the word goodbye in addition to his given name, Nadir tried desperately to remember what Erik had said before that. He hadn't paid close enough attention. Hadn't he learned that he must always pay close attention, that he was always on duty, even when he was not?

He'd promised him something, without being very specific. _You deserve more, and you shall have it._ Well, what of that? A gift? A payment? He had mentioned also _I have not even paid you for your troubles._ He should have corrected him there, let him know that Elizabeth had given him an advance, that more would be unnecessary as his Persian pension kept the apartment taken care of, and as of late, he scarcely ever returned there. There was the bit about friendship. And an apology. The _second_ apology he had received from Erik in the time since he had been here. From anyone else, it would not have been so strange at all on opening night to thank a person for all his work in helping prepare the cast, and yet, from Erik it was the most peculiar thing yet. Combine that with his sullen mood, his lack of interest in Christine, his refusal to dine with Elizabeth and his sudden tendency not to find fault with any member of the cast and it might portend disaster. Either Erik was up to something terrible or—well, either way it was something terrible. The question was who exactly was in danger. Everyone else? Or Erik.

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Anton exited towards Nadir and Nadir made a grab for him as he broke into a run once past the curtain. The abrupt cessation of his forward momentum spun him around and for a moment they were trapped in a bizarre twirling dance. Anton clearly thought that was as Nadir intended it for when they at last came to a stop, he said "Yes! We dance, Monsieur Kahn, for it is even more wonderful than I ever could have anticipated! But I—I must go and—remove this." He indicated the mask he'd been wearing for the first two acts. "You understand, surely. As long as it takes, I will scarcely get a rest," and he broke into a run again, down a few steps, through a curtain, a doorway and down a hall. Nadir jogged at his side, behind him, then at his side again, trying to speak as he went.

"I shall join you then. I must speak with you. Before it is over. I may not get the chance again."

Nadir was grateful for the relative privacy that Anton's dressing area provided. "What did Erik say to you?" he began bluntly.

Anton froze in place and stared at him wide-eyed and it occurred to Nadir that he should never have uttered Erik's name to the boy.

"Forgive me. I am flustered. The conversation you had in the manager's office earlier today with my..."—he flailed for the word—"Partner," he managed at last, though it wasn't exactly accurate.

"Yes?" Anton breathed a sigh of relief. He had worried that this would be about the strange conversation he'd had with a wall a few nights before or the stranger still visit below ground.

"Did he say anything unusual to you?" The dark-skinned manager was frantic beneath a composed exterior. It was obvious he was in a hurry, and Anton had the sensation of not being able to think of his answers quickly enough.

"Unusual?" Anton was puzzled. You mean like, _Oh, I have this underground hideaway beneath the opera?_ Or perhaps, _My face is actually quite a lot thinner and bonier than I allow most folks to see, but it would embarrass my daughter so if I were to appear as I truly am. Don't tell anyone._ "No. He didn't say anything unusual."

"What _did_ he say then?"

"Oh, not much at all. Not to worry, that everything was okay. That type of thing. I did most of the talking, actually."

"Then what did _you_ say?"

"I asked him for permission to court Christine."

It was here that the dark-skinned man ceased to hide his emotion. "You asked him what?" he burst out. Then he covered his tracks. "Why did you ask him _that_? Why would you ask _him_?" How could Anton know the history between Christine and Erik? Had Christine told him? Surely Erik would not have told him. No, it had to have been Christine. She had, after all, told Raoul everything as well. Well, if Erik was upset it was no wonder at all! Asking permission to court her the night his opera opens! _That _opera, no less! The one in which she played _that role_. What could be worse?

"He _said_ yes," Anton placated him. "And he said it was okay if we didn't get married right away."

Well! I could imagine it would be. That would give him plenty of time to change her mind, wouldn't it? Nadir was livid. It was wrong of Anton to ask. It was not Erik's place to grant or deny permission. And if Erik had any designs on changing her mind again _this _time, it would be an even greater disaster now that he possessed greater power over the opera, and therefore, over her. Add to that the matter of the locked gate, and no one would ever be able to rescue her. He cried aloud. He himself had bricked over the last remaining entrance to Erik's lair! At _Erik's_ request! Erik had used words like immediately, must, and critical. Oh dear. I have fallen for it again, thought Nadir miserably.

Goodbye, Nadir, he'd said. _Goodbye, Nadir_. As in _You shall never see me again as long as you live, Nadir_. Splendid. Just spec_tac_ular. By now he had probably slipped through that hollow pillar, into the floor, across the ampitheatre and behind the stage. By now, he could be anywhere, like back in his lair carefully removing his mask. Hadn't he said something about wearing it for the last time? Damn, Nadir cursed internally. He had to find Erik, but first he had to warn Christine. He must speak with Christine during the intermission. Then he could spend all of act three searching for Erik.

* * *

Erik would not have been particularly difficult to find had Nadir selected that moment to look for him. The dust covers had been removed from box five because it wouldn't do to have them in place with the public there. At this distance Erik's rubber mask did not appear odd in the least. The only thing anyone looking up from the floor at box five might consider odd in the slightest was that while every other box was full—indeed, while every other seat in the house was full, only one man sat, completely still and leaning forward just a bit, in box five.

He was still aggravated with the hypocrisy of the crowd beneath him, but he had calmed himself some in watching them. That one, he thought, did not appear sympathetic at all, but at least he was honest. This lady here, her tears seemed forthright. If he had known all those years ago to turn up on her porch, he might have had someplace warm to sleep that night, anyway. Of course, she would have been a mere child all those years ago, and her parents surely would have sent him off, even if merely because they had her in the house. That one there was a hypocrite, certainly. She was shaking her head and frowning deeply, but that was not true sympathy in her eyes. It was for the benefit of the woman standing near her who looked far more upset. That man there was looking around awkwardly as though he was quite unhappy with the production. Ah, perhaps I have managed to offend some already, Erik thought.

Those who were offended already would not likely make it through act three. He smiled sinisterly then laughed at himself. To think that he might consider disturbing someone just a bit emotionally with a piece of music and feel sinister! It put his entire past to shame.

But no, that man did not truly appear offended. He appeared more... bored. Bored? Erik wondered. Bored, with _Don Juan Triumphant_? Could such a thing be possible? If one did not appreciate the story, there was the music. If one was not so fond of music, there was still the spectacular display of costumes and scenery. If one was not entertained by—No. That man's problem had nothing at all to do with the opera, he decided. There was pain on his face—something like agony. He put his arm around the woman standing beside him and Erik's eyes strayed. That man's wife was apparently very ill. She was shaking. It was as though she had begun to cry at something the opera brought out in her but when the curtain fell she could not stop crying. This was indeed curious. The front row of box five afforded him a greater view of the crowd than any other vantage point. Pity he had not managed the ability to sit here like this and remain with the lights up until now. He watched with growing curiosity and dread. She was definitely _not well_.

He cast a glance over his shoulder then withdrew his watch. He should get Nadir. Someone should call a doctor. That woman was _clearly_ unwell. If he did nothing and something happened during the next act, it would be one more death on his head, and tonight he had not the time to be absolved of it. He should get Nadir immediately. But how would he find Nadir in all the crowd? Perhaps he should call for a doctor himself. He, of all people, knew how the opera ended. He could find a doctor. _He _should go. He hesitated only a moment longer. He didn't want to leave the box. He didn't want to go back among the milling crowd that jostled him and pushed him and greeted him and admired him. He hated them nearly as much as he'd hated them when they feared him. Yet he had to... That poor woman!

She turned her head and at the same time withdrew her handkerchief for the briefest of moments. Erik felt his heart stop.

Elizabeth!

* * *

Erik had not seemed particularly pleased about the knob on the inside of the room that had been the torture chamber, either, Nadir reflected as he backed away from Anton. In fact, he had seemed rather _displeased_ but sought not to reveal it. _He plans to make Christine a prisoner inside it!_ Nadir thought frantically. In his haste he did not even bid farewell to Anton as he rushed out of his dressing area and headed towards Christine's. If he were fortunate, she would be dressed and ready with time to spare and he could speak with her as well. He could warn her of what was to happen, perhaps. Of course, what could he possibly do about it with the show in progress except perhaps substitute another soprano for Christine? Even that was not a solution, for one could not sacrifice one human life to save another. He could imagine the terrible trades Erik would offer in his hellish red script.

"Christine!" Nadir commenced beating on her door repeatedly with his fist without waiting for a response. When she opened the door he fell inward and she cried out as he almost fell to the floor. "Christine!" he cried again, scrambling up. "I must speak with you about Erik!"

Christine had never known the Persian to act like this before. He was always wise and dignified, like some foreign religious figure. Even the night that he and Raoul were trapped in the torture chamber, she had listened to his voice, ever patient, telling her where to find the bag, how to get Erik to release her bonds, which of the little sculpted figures to turn, while her fiancé went mad with rage, love, heat, exhaustion and terror on the other side of the wall. The Persian was a steady force, one that if swayed, must have some terrible information indeed.

"What is it?" Christine said, turning terrified eyes to his.

He checked his watch. He had little time. "I would very much prefer to say this more tactfully, but there isn't time. I fear that Erik plans to abduct you this evening and this time it may be an abduction from which I am unable to bring you back. He has converted the torture chamber into a room of sorts. He—well, _I_ bricked over the only remaining entrance before I realized the possibility. The gate he has installed would prevent me from reaching you if he were to change the lock or simply take back the key he has given me. He has managed to create a situation on stage in which Anton looks rather like himself. Do you suppose if Erik himself appeared on stage during act four anyone would suspect anything was amiss?"

Christine's eyes widened, not with fear but with disbelief. "It isn't possible, Nadir," she said at last. "It isn't possible. If Erik had any desire to have me, he would have simply accepted."

It was Nadir's turn to be puzzled, and by the expression on his face, his perplexity was profound. "Accepted what?" Christine was suddenly near tears. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but we have not time for tears! Speak!"

"He said no. I offered to go with. I told him I—" her voice broke, then she bravely continued. "I love him. I told him we would have a nice flat in the city like he always wanted and that we would sing. We could go for walks on Sundays like he always wanted. And he said no. He said no because he has to go away after tonight." It was this that she could not bear and she broke into noisy tears. "He would not say where he was going, only that he would go!"

"He was angry then?"

Her pale face turned up to him, streaming with tears. "Not in the least. He was hardly Erik at all. He was calm and... and..." she struggled for the word. "...resigned," she said at last.

"Did he say anything else?"

"I don't—" she stammered "—have time!" She seemed to realize where she was, what night it was and suddenly threw open the door and rushed down the hall into another and threw herself into a chair. "Help me!" she cried. "I know I am late. Something happened. Help me." She indicated her hair and her face with a wave of her hand and the ladies set to work immediately. Nadir hovered in the doorway knowing he was unwelcome but needing information desperately.

"What else did he say, Christine?" he cried desperately.

At the sound of her name and the tone of his voice she raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror. "He said that I ought to give Monsieur Kuznetsov a chance. He said that he is far more attractive and sings almost as well as he."

"Ah, he _was_ angry then!"

"No! Not in the least. He seemed to mean it."

"He was not sarcastic?"

She was emphatic. "_No._"

The dark man's eyes widened then narrowed. He frowned deeply. "Oh..." he began and looked as though he might curse. "No!" he said suddenly and turned from the doorway.

Christine sprang up from her chair. "He said it was the most important night of his life!" she screamed after him.

"Damn," he said in response. "Damn. Damn. Damn."

* * *

Erik was frozen in place at the rail of his box when the lights dimmed. His mouth was open and he knew it, but he could not remember which muscles worked to close it. His mind worked feverishly but he was not conscious of his own thoughts. He simply stared. She let the man beside her pull her roughly onto his shoulder buried her face there. Then she was shaking her head, perhaps trying to explain. Erik's eyes narrowed as he looked at the man. He was broad and strong and ruddy with a full blonde beard, a massive amount of unruly blonde hair, a round face and a wide smile. Rather the opposite of a living corpse if ever he'd seen one. Was this the doctor friend from long ago? After all, her letter did indicate she had work at Salpetriere Hospital. Was this _someone very special_ whom the ring was to remember? Or was it the infamous Wilhelm of the secret letter hidden within the Freud text? In any case, he would appear rather foolish rushing to find a doctor for the lady when she was seated right beside one. He would appear far more foolish still dashing to her side only to find that she did not recognize him in this mask or—worse still, that she did and that he himself made matters worse. He stayed in place, standing at the rail of the box until the lights dimmed so much that he could scarcely make out her form huddled against her broad-shouldered protector, then he collapsed into his seat again telling himself she was safer with that one than with himself, that there was nothing he could possibly offer her, especially now, and that it was obviously his opera and therefore his fault that she was so grieved.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** Hey! Listen... I promised you act 3 by today without thinking. I had to first include what happened during the intermission first. But, since I don't like to break promises, if you really, really want act 3, I'll try to post it by midnight tonight. Let me know.


	100. Chapter 100: Act III

**Author's Note****:** WHEW! I made it! Only 20 minutes late! Okay folks. I tried really hard to get this thing out by midnight as promised, but my husband came home tonight and casually mentioned that work had not gone so incredibly well today. I said, without looking away from my screen, "Oh, it couldn't have been that bad." He said, "Yes, it was." I said, "You still have your job right?" A couple of minutes passed in which he did not answer so I thought, _Okay, he's messing with my head, right?_ I looked up. He said, "I didn't for about five minutes today." Ultimately, when it came down to him refusing to back down even in the face of indefinite suspension without pay, the boss backed down instead and told him to stay. Naturally, something like that requires I leave the computer and hear all the nasty little details of how it got to that point. Thus, despite the fact that a whole bunch of you loyally reviewed me and totally deserved a chapter, I failed you. :hangs head in shame: Or, I almost did. I But I'm not _that_ late. I swear to you, it would not have happened if it had not been a very worthy reason. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

**Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

* * *

Erik collapsed back into his seat, breathing heavily. He analyzed this briefly. It hadn't even started yet. Surely it couldn't be the anticipation of it! It was the fact that Elizabeth was right below him, perhaps. Yes, she was crying into the shoulder of another man, but that couldn't erase the memory of one tender kiss long ago. She was right here! The woman who dared to kiss him—with no reason other than the simple fact that she wanted to—was right below him. He looked at the place in the dark where she was surely sitting. That man had his arm around her and she was crying to him. It was rather like Christine after all, was it not? He had promised himself and insisted to Nadir that he would not do it again, but here he was sitting there watching her, undetected, as she undoubtedly said, "Oh, Wilhelm, he's just terrible," and he promised to take her away. Well, no matter. It solved a problem for him actually, for he'd felt a twinge of guilt about leaving the world without being certain there was someone for her as well as for Christine. He sighed and leaned back in his seat but was frustrated to find that he was not relaxed.

No matter. Things were about to get very interesting.

This was the act that was going to cause a stir. The curtain opened to a number of ladies on stage talking about a man. Of course Don Juan would enter in a moment. Erik's eyes scanned for Anton. This ought to be grand. As kind as Anton had turned out to be, the fact remained that strutting was still one of the things he did best. He wore elegant clothes with finesse, but he seemed to prefer the flamboyant, which turned out to be just perfect, at least at the beginning of the act.

It was another mask, not Anton's face. That hadn't been the original plan but instead a detail Erik changed when he got over his initial hatred of the boy and grudgingly acknowledged that the message of inner beauty would be far more profound if the audience had not seen his true face yet. The mask made him moderately attractive. Just a shade better than passable. It was not too must more elaborate than his own plain face that he now wore, but the results were dramatic—as dramatic as they had been in reality. More so was Erik's opinion, though he considered for a moment that perhaps the difference was merely that Don Juan acted upon his urges while he ran and hid from his own. There was that girl, after all. What was her name again? Thin but shapely, with brown hair. Warm air, seductive voice. He could not place her name. It was because she was a dancer perhaps. He always remembered the names of the singers, did he not? Idly he wondered what would happen if he really did present himself in the girl's dressing room after the show. If he presented himself, what exactly would she do? What would he be expected to do? It was safe to wonder, for there was no chance it would occur. There was no chance at all, for, he thought, slipping his left hand into his left coat pocket. Yes, it was still right there where it belonged. There would be no visits to ballerinas after the show, for after this show, he would be a corpse, though no longer a _living_ corpse at all.

Even so, it was rather interesting to speculate while watching the first of Don Juan's series of seductions of women across Europe. Hardly a conquest, actually, the first was. Eva threw herself at him in a most unladylike fashion. Erik brushed his hands over the sleeves of his jacket and the legs of his trousers, but he could not wipe the filth away. His hands burned in all the places where Christine had placed her lips, and a sudden revelation exposed that this, too, had actually happened. He squirmed. This was _not_ the feeling act three was supposed to evoke.

Yes, Eva's attraction to Don Juan changed as suddenly as did his face. The morning after his unholy pact was sealed, she happened to saunter past and glance in his direction. That was all it took. The poor woman belonged to him and he did as he wished with her without remorse. If Erik himself had made the effort, what would Christine have done?

It was difficult to tell whether the audience was sympathizing or not from the murmurs and gasps that filled the auditorium of the Opera that night, however, for that first scene of conquest between Anton and Christine was breathtaking in a way that had nothing to do with the music. Anton clutched at her, and she yielded to him entirely, scarcely putting up the fight that was scripted. Erik could feel her yielding through the thick air that hung about him in the Opera, could see the flush in her cheeks from the distance of box five, fancied that he could hear the blood rushing in her veins as her arms and legs opened to the boy. His hands trembled as he watched Anton's hands sliding down from her shoulders to her breasts, then to her waist, and then _down_ yet again. He closed his eyes, felt her through the music, lived vicariously through Anton, who _was_ Don Juan, who _was he_. He literally tasted the high screams of ecstasy Christine sang forth as they neared the end of the scene.

* * *

Caught up in the passion of the scene itself and the memories connected to it, Erik had forgotten that not so far beneath him sat Elizabeth, her head on the shoulder of a man nearly his absolute opposite. She was no longer crying but sitting absolutely rigid in her seat, breathing heavily and marveling at the music. This was something she had never heard through the door of Erik's room in the time she spent beneath the Opera. This she had somehow never expected of him. It was not a sound one merely heard, but music that one felt with the entire body, certain parts in particular. It suddenly occurred to her to wonder why no other man on earth could do to her with word or deed what Erik had done through music alone. This was an Erik she did not know at all, not her kind, gentle Erik who sobbed his life on her shoulder and shied away from her caresses. No, this was an Erik who was commanding and strong, perhaps even a bit dangerous. This was the rest of the glimpse she had gotten that night when he had gripped her by the waist and made her utter a promise. _This_ was the Erik to whom she most wanted to keep that promise.

Then why, oh why, had he refused her?

Beside her, she could feel the presence of Wilhelm. She was filled with the sensation of having starved for an untold amount of time only to suddenly encounter a buffet table upon which was laid every type of food that she could not bear to eat. She pressed her fist to her mouth to suppress a sob she feared might disturb those around her.

Wilhelm was no longer watching the action on stage. Instead he was staring at Elizabeth, watching with horror her transformation from a woman who sobbed with grief to one who quivered with passion. He was not at all pleased. He had never known Elizabeth to like opera in the first place, and having witnessed what he just had, he was rather certain that it was not the music for which she had come to this place. Unfortunately, the intermission had taken place after the second act, and there would not likely be another one. He sat pensively watching her, debating how to remove himself and the object of his affection from this location at once without disrupting the rest of the audience and without causing a scene.

* * *

When the passion between Don Juan and Eva was over, Erik dared to open his eyes and look about the audience below him as the action continued on stage. There was a brief interlude during involving Don Juan, his valet, and the lovely Charlotte. Ladies in the crowd were fanning themselves. A few appeared to have fainted. A few gentlemen seemed angry, but most were merely shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Ah, thought Erik, and we have not even reached the height of passion! He smiled to himself as the audience writhed. Let _them_ know the pain and suffering of desire unfulfilled for a few _hours_ anyway. It had been _his_ for a _lifetime_.

But, on the stage, poor unhappy Don Juan! When at last he held Eva in his arms, when at last she professed undying love for him, when she pressed her face against his and he kissed her... only to find that it did nothing at all to assuage his loneliness, ease his pain or diminish his self-loathing. Poor Don Juan who took this same woman to bed in the red-draped bedchamber assuring himself that _this_ would fill the empty place within. Pitiable Don Juan who lay beside the girl and looked at her and wondered. Lowly Don Juan and who dared to believe that love might be his at last. Unfortunate Don Juan who also dared to _ask the question_ of the lovely woman who sat at his side singing of his radiant beauty, dared to ask...

And he did more than ask. Before he could stop himself he had not only asked her but revealed himself and asked again. And without a word, the look on her face provided his answer and he turned away in disgust then suddenly flew into a violent rage.

When had Anton mastered rage? Erik himself cowered away. And Anton dragged Christine across that stage! Had he written that? He didn't remember writing that. Oh, is _that_ how it had looked? He covered his face. How fitting! He hadn't even planned it, but it had worked out perfectly. He would die tonight, but before he did, here it was: his life playing out before his eyes. With his eyes squinted closed he couldn't see it but he could hear Christine's voice hitting the high notes that sounded like screams. _Make it stop_, he thought desperately with his hands over his ears. Stop, stop, stop.

And at last, it did. But it also went on. Finding that the superficial so-called love of Eva did nothing to quash his isolation... poor Don Juan who had dared to ask of Eva as she lay in his arms after expressing her love and her lust for him, whether she would desire him as much if were not handsome... Poor Don Juan, who even in beauty still felt loathsome inside, knew her answer when she hesitated to answer and at once removed her from his bed and himself from her presence, and though she followed him and begged him, would reach for her no more.

He dragged himself away in anguish.

His grief led immediately to the seduction of Charlotte and the surrender of Mathurine, followed quickly by the marriage to Elvira, which was superceded by the affair with Isabella, the attempt at Doña Ana, the conquests of Tisbea and Belisa and at last the culmination of Don Juan's many physical triumphs that resulted in emotional torment: the attempted seduction of Aminta and the murder of her father, which the audience, if they knew the original story, would expect would ultimately lead to his demise. In each of these, with the exception of Aminta, the passion heightened still more. Erik could not decide which he regretted more: writing the piece or deciding to subject himself to watching it performed. Several times he considered slipping away, if not out the door then through the pillar or the trap door, but he found his legs weak and unsteady and doubted they would support him. So he sat and watched. He trembled with desire.

Poor Don Juan who could not fill his hollow empty soul with lust. He married Doña Elvira but the consummation of such was brief and unsatisfying to him. She tried desperately to love him, but he could not accept her love and ultimately abandoned her in his pursuit of something elusive which would quell the hatred inside himself. Always in the background was Eva's rejection, his inspiration and motivation, the source of his pain and yearning.

* * *

As Elizabeth watched Doña Elvira she recognized something of herself and wondered how it was possible as the piece had undoubtedly been written long before she'd ever encountered dear Erik. Oh, Erik, is this what you fear, she thought, giving herself over to tears again. At last she understood why he could not allow her to love him, and she wept bitterly. Again, Wilhelm put an arm around her shoulders and suggested softly in her ear that they leave. "Let's go home if it upsets you this much." She shook him off angrily. How dare he suggest he had any idea where her home might be? "I haven't seen you cry this much in nineteen years," he said softly. She glared at him and in the dim light her eyes reflected a strange yellow glowt that pierced him though the darkness; he dared not speak again.

Meanwhile, on stage Erik's opera continued to take the audience further and further, but never quite far enough, always leaving them panting for more even while they whispered behind their hands that this was highly inappropriate, insufferable; a base and low form of entertainment!

A wild angry mob of women fought for the right to marry Don Juan, who, instead of cleverly sidestepping or being flattered at so much attention, dragged himself away moaning in pain only to be confronted by Doña Elvira and her brothers who demanded he atone for the dishonor he had caused their family.

Members of the audience all pretended to be appalled for the sakes of those around them, but secretly, each of the women desired Don Juan and each of the men envied—or related to—him; it was this fact that made Act IV so heartrending.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I am now going to go fall into bed and dream of reviews, which I hope will be waiting for me when I wake and log in to begin work on act 4. Tomorrow is Friday. One of my girls has an appointment at the doctor, but otherwise my schedule is pretty open. Since I'd like to finish this tale within my natural lifespan, my goal is to post act 4 tomorrow. All encouragement is appreciated.


	101. Chapter 101: Act IV

**Author's Note****:** A quick note about La Carlotta, though she does not appear in my story at all (because she's run off to Italy. Poor Teatro alla Scalla! No seriously...) According to Leroux, Carlotta's voice is perfect, but she sings without emotion. She's not _bad_ as implied in ALW. Thus, when I needed to make a point about someone who sang perfectly but without emotion, I used her as an example. That's all.

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

* * *

Anton was alone in the center of the stage, his aria a prayer to restore him to his former ugliness and take away the guilt associated with the inevitable death—yes, the death—of the lovely Eva.

There needed to be a longer pause there between the acts, Erik thought feeling his pulse rage and throb. What should he do, leave a final note? _Goodbye, cruel world. Wait, just one thing. The audience needs a cool down period before the first aria of act four begins._ _Goodbye._ Careful, Erik. You'll turn your death into a farce instead of a tragedy. He took a slow deep breath, closed his eyes and willed himself to forget act three, forget passion, forget lust, forget love, forget the desire to ever be touched. It was not easy, but it was something he'd mastered long ago. It was easier now than it had been perhaps twenty years earlier. Control came with practice. And with age. Even so, tonight it was difficult.

Far to the left of the stage Christine played the dying Eva with a despair that put to shame her singing Desdemona with Erik that first time. One would have thought she was truly dying as she sang and many wondered how she conjured up the emotion to put such suffering into her voice. It required little skill, however, for she was truly distraught with her role both on this stage and in life which so closely resembled it. Her rejection of the one man who had offered her the purest love had resulted in the pain and agony of so many others. It was no accident, she knew it now, that she was cast in this role. How could Erik have managed it, when he had been writing _Don Juan Triumphant_ so many years before he'd even met her?

She had no way of knowing, as her tears and longing had interrupted the great speech he'd had prepared for her earlier this evening, that Erik had been able to finish the work at last only after he met her, for it was she, at the time he had written it, whom he believed would redeem him. It had never been meant to be performed anyway, but if it had been, it would have been Christine as Doña Elvira. The part didn't even fully use the highest register of Christine's range, but that wasn't because it wasn't Christine. As Erik heard it inside his mind, it was Christine, her voice deepened only slightly, husky with emotion. It was a decision made in anger to cast her as Eva. Eva should have been someone who sang with far less emotion than Christine. Someone like La Carlotta. Anyone but Christine. But the truth was, it was best this way, for Corentine, the young mezzo-soprano he'd cast as Elvira was quite talented. She could never have managed Eva, while with a little work, she had managed Elvira quite nicely. If he'd had time enough to re-write it, perhaps... but this was nonsense. Another twenty years?

Still, it was a shame not to have had the opportunity to tell Christine the truth. It was the truth, was it not? It was still her kiss that night that had changed him. She deserved to know that. It was getting to be a rather long note he would have to leave, then, and he rather felt the idea of leaving a note destroyed the act itself. Suicide is a final determined act that states _there is nothing left in this world for me, not even hope_. To write something that was tantamount to an attempt to continue to interact with the world—indeed, to continue to exercise control over it!—was to admit that it was not a final act. But it _must_ be the final act. It was the first time he wavered in his resolve.

Tears streamed down Christine's face as she sang and collapsed and sang no more. Her body remained while Don Juan had his next encounter with the supernatural.

Anton was still on his knees in supplication and Erik was shaking his head in wonder. When was the last time he'd actually tried that? Long ago, for it had seemed rather not to work so well despite what everyone said. Religion was a vast realm in which beautiful music was perhaps his only interest. Spirituality, an elusive thing he only marginally understood. Even so, in prayer on ones knees was the absolutely symbol of desperation. And while Anton as Don Juan remained so, the Devil entered once again.

The Devil came upon Don Juan, caught him at prayer and chastised him soundly. How dare he? A slave can serve only one master and Don Juan had already made his choice. Hadn't he already pledged his soul? To pledge it again was a cheat. So Don Juan begged the Devil to reverse their agreement. The face wasn't worth it, the Devil hadn't really kep the deal for the face had not brought Don Juan what he'd asked for. He wasn't happy. He wasn't whole. But the Devil laughed. Don Juan hadn't asked for happiness! He hadn't asked to be whole! He had asked for a reasonable face. He had asked for physical attention from women. He had asked for what everyone else had. It was true, and Don Juan cried.

Erik smiled, remembering. It had started as just a bit to console himself that perhaps what everyone else had was not so wonderful as he truly believed. After all, everyone had it, and none of them seemed entirely happy. Even so, he thought, I would give all I possess just for the chance. The chance! They do not appreciate it. They do not know what they have, but I... I! I would truly make the most of every moment. Now he scoffed. Would he? Would he indeed? Had he? Had he _ever_ made the most of anything? But then, he had not _really_ had the chance. He could still blame his face.

Surely I've made a mistake Don Juan insisted, Anton's voice wavering with emotion, but the Devil's deep voice refused him three times and their voices mingled, Anton's beginning to soaring but the other man's dragging it down to the depths of despair until Anton choked and coughed and fell upon the ground. After the third refusal Don Juan crawled upon his knees to the Devil's cloven feet and embraced them. He begged, he pleaded. He offered everything he had, but the Devil is not swayed by material possessions, and he already had made his deal for the soul.

Poor Don Juan crawled away in sorrow and covered his plain face with a black mask of fabric that was more a sack made into a hood than a mask at all. So doing, he announced that as penance for his dastardly acts he would never allow anyone to look upon the face that had been a part of his terrible pact again.

Though the hood, too, proved not enough to console him, his words of agony as he put it on easily earned him the forgiveness of Doña Elvira who had not until then realized the depths of his despair, had not understood his past when she married him, and who loved him now as she never could have before. She attempted to remove the hood to kiss him, but he fought her off insisting that this normal face was a mask for the ugliness of his soul, which was beyond repair. He was sprawled on the floor of their modest bedroom, his limbs splayed uncomfortably as she accosted him in the act of crawling away from her, and she wrapped her arms around him and sang to him until at last he sunk down upon the ground and appeared to rest at last. She held him, rocking back and forth and singing to him as though he were a child. He crawled, somehow almost into her lap and there remained as though asleep. She leaned back against the bed behind her and closed her eyes as well, humming repeatedly the last line she had sung.

In the audience Elizabeth was beginning to wonder at how eerily the opera reflected what she knew of Erik's life, and she wondered how recently it had been written and what of the terrifying music she had heard behind his door all those days after he had seen Christine in the window. She looked at the people around her, people with plain, average, ordinary faces and she wondered if to Erik every face he saw was a mask for an ugly soul. Her hands strayed to her own face and she fingered the features carefully. Were they really so different truly? No wonder Erik would never fully trust her. No wonder Erik could never love her. It wasn't because of Christine or anyone else; it was because to him _she was just like them_. She looked like the others. They were all the same. We are all the same, she thought. We are all the same to him. Cruel, rejecting... and yet, he has written this! If he could write the part of Elvira, then he must believe it were possible!

Or perhaps it were only an opera.

And at last Corentine's voice fell silent and the music from the orchestra became dark and foreboding. These, now, were sounds the Elizabeth recognized as having come from behind the locked door all those days that Erik tortured himself. The dark strains continued as the Devil entered once more. Dear Doña Elvira was asleep at last and the Devil awakened miserable Don Juan from his moment's peace with a touch. The Devil smiled a hideous grin and asked poor Don Juan whether he was certain that ugliness was what he truly wanted, whether it was truly his heart's desire.

Don Juan crawled from the lap of his loving wife and prostrated himself at the Devil's feet once again and in his misery agreed that yes—_yes!_—yes, he would give anything—_anything at all!_—to be restored to his former ugliness or _even worse still_. The Devil was, of course, very much obliged to give it to him. "As a gift," he sang, "nothing at all asked in return."

And poor Don Juan in his misery did not realize until morning that he had agreed to take back his ugly face but had not bargained for redemption of his soul in exchange. Now he was twice cursed.

Elizabeth trembled. Oh yes, this music she remembered. It was the music that had driven her nearly to madness.

Don Juan threw himself upon the floor and beat his head against the walls letting out a an inhuman cry like nothing ever heard before. The cry awakened Doña Elvira who was still on the floor where she had fallen asleep with her husband in her arms. She hurried to him and hearing his pitiful cries tore off the sack that covered him revealing a head far more hideous than she ever could have imagined.

She should have drawn back in absolute horror, but instead she embraced him and held him as he wept while he expressed a sincere desire to end his life.

Erik cringed inwardly. He hadn't planned _this_ when he wrote _that_. How was it that it was all turning to truth in the most horrid and fearful way? He wrapped his arms protectively about himself and glowered at the opera as though someone else had dared to write it, exposing his darkest secrets.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** Nearly three o'clock on a Friday, fifteen hours after the last chapter. Now that we are nearing the end, I feel the need to post more and more often suddenly. Don't panic, though. I say "nearing the end" but it is a long, long journey, so "near" does not mean two or three chapters away. Oh no. Far more than that, so we'll be together a bit longer. Meantime, a penny for your thoughts on act four?


	102. Chapter 102: Act V

**Author's Note:** Ah, at last! _Don Juan Triumphant_ is complete! Does this mean I can live like everyone else now? Alas, it does not, for _Don Juan_ is complete, but _this_ story is not. Please return for the next installment which will probably be posted sometime late in the day tomorrow (Saturday, July 26). Goodnight!

**Disclaimer:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

* * *

Nadir had been down to the lair and found nothing that indicated Erik's intentions, but it did not ease the terrible feeling he had about what Erik might do. The coffin was closed and the linens in the Louis Philippe room did not appear to have been slept in. The kitchen, as usual, suffered from disuse with the exception of a number of empty bottles of wine, vodka and absinthe. A man who had neither slept nor eaten could not be expected to make the best of decisions. A man who was consuming that much alcohol should certainly be expected to do far worse. Add to that the fact that the man was Erik, and it was nearly impossible to predict what he would do.

But he had said goodbye, so it was certain he was going away in one sense or another. It had not been said in anger, so it was not a threat. Indeed, it had followed a most beautiful apology and profession of friendship. It was a kindhearted goodbye. _He had embraced him!_ When had Erik ever done something like that before? It was clearly a fond goodbye. He was going somewhere quite far, likely indefinitely. He had told Christine as much as well, though he had been careful not to say where. Because he did not want to be followed, or _because he did not want to upset her_? He had given Anton permission to court Christine.

Returning back to the side of the stage Nadir had managed to ask Anton one last time as he ran by during a costume change was there anything that had a ring of finality to it? Anton hesitated, translating finality in his head. At last said, "Do not hurt her. She needs someone to take care of her." Yes. Then he would definitely be gone. But gone where? Wherever he was going, it sounded as though he expected to be gone forever. There was only one place a person could go from which he could never return. There could be little doubt that Nadir's suspicions were correct, though he tried desperately to find something that might convince him otherwise—arrangements for passage on a ship, for example. But there was nothing.

The Punjab lasso was nowhere to be found, yet Nadir strongly suspected Erik would not hang himself. He'd heard him speak of strangling as the worst means by which to die, other than drowning, on those few guilty occasions on which he'd chosen Nadir to whom to unburden his soul. There remained dozens of other possibilities, though, he thought, slipping into the amphitheatre undetected by the audience through one of Erik's secret passageways and looking up at box five. He rather expected it was unlikely Erik intended to attempt to simply jump to his death. Box five was on the lower level. There was too great a chance for survival with merely a few painfully broken bones. That left sharp objects, a pistol, poison... all very painful, yes. He didn't expect Erik to purposely embrace still more pain, but as the opera was progressing without event, Christine was not in fear and the ghost had not appeared for months and months, it didn't seem Erik was out to do harm to anyone else. He paced in the area outside Erik's box. Yes, he could throw the door open and demand Erik explain himself, but suppose Erik already had the means to end his life with him. Would he not simply do so immediately before he could be stopped? He could creep in quietly, hope that Erik was too enamored with the opera to hear him, slip up to the front row to sit beside him and attempt to begin a conversation that might talk him out of it. But it was unlikely Erik would listen to his pleas at all, let alone _during his own opera_. If it had been anyone other than Erik, he and four others would have rushed into the box and grabbed him, subdued him through whatever means were necessary and taken him to a doctor, but this was Erik. It would likely result in five men dead in the end. But _something_ about that idea was not so bad, Nadir thought. Which part? A doctor? No... but perhaps...

* * *

The end of _Don Juan Triumphant:_ Erik remembered that night, struggling to finish before the performance of _Faust_, for he had predetermined that the _Don Juan Triumphant_ must be complete before he was to be married. Such a struggle it had been, but there was joy in that struggle for he truly believed—well, it is true he didn't _fully_ believe it, but a part of him believed, and that part believed so strongly!—that she would love him.

He had threatened to kill her if she did not marry him. What had he been thinking? That was the way one professed love? But he'd been so desperate he'd have tried anything—anything! Yes. He _had_ tried anything and everything that night, and his desperation had pushed him to a point far beyond reason. Perhaps it would have been best to have killed himself _that_ night. It would have been better to die than to have harmed someone about whom he cared so much! But hope, that wretched, wretched thing, hope! Hope, the last of all the terrible things released from Pandora's box. All the evil of the world could have been bearable had it not been for hope, that small ray of light that drives a monster onward, continuing to suffer all for the hope that someday it may change. Hope. He despised the word.

Yes, Erik remembered struggling through the ending of _Don Juan Triumphant_, desperate that it be finished so that he could pack it away and go above to live like a normal man. What a joke, he thought now, to think that she ever would have accepted me. And he remembered the mounting fear that he'd felt even that night, for he did not really truly ever believe that she would have. He remembered showing her the little figures of the scorpion and the grasshopper. That was the real reason it had to be finished, wasn't it? In case she said no and he had to kill her and himself and everyone else in his agony. It wouldn't do to leave the work incomplete. No, before it was blown to bits, it had to be finished. Yes, that made sense. It made sense the way anything a madman thinks makes sense, but it had seemed so logical at the time! How had he gone so insane? Was he mad yet? He must be for all this dark thoughts!

Doña Elvira held her dying Don Juan in her arms, refusing to abandon him to the very last. _Oh, to be loved like that!_

* * *

Nadir slipped back out of the amphitheatre the way he had come and darted down a dark hallway. He emerged near by the ticket-seller's box, entered at once and began rifling through things.

"Help me find her," he implored the employee who stared at him, struck dumb by his urgency. "Smith. Or Smythe. Or something like that. First name Elizabeth. Where's her seat? I need to speak with her immediately."

"Is there some emergency, Monsieur?" Everyone was surprised to see the usually calm dark-skinned man flustered and bustling about this night. It was more than opening night anxiety, that much was for certain for the opera had gone off without a hitch, and here the man was frantic in the final few moments of the final act. Peculiar indeed.

"Of _course_ there is an emergency, just find her for me!"

At last he had a seat and a row and all that remained was how to get Elizabeth out of the amphitheatre without disrupting the performance enough for everyone to know that something was amiss.

* * *

_Be not surprised to see me, Don Juan, _Doña Elvira sang to Don Juan. Don Juan was rather surprised at anyone remaining near him now, let alone sweet Doña Elvira whom he had betrayed. Corentine's voice was flooded with emotion as she sang as well. Erik could scarcely contain his ecstasy. How could he be so fortunate to have had so much talent in his company? He hadn't had more than moment or two for instruction of Corentine, yet she, too, was perfect tonight. Was he so wrapped up in his emotion that he was less discerning? Or was it that the cast so thoroughly felt their roles?

_A most urgent motive compels me... I come here not full of the wrath... You see me much changed from what I once was... No longer do I pray for your punishment or speak of threats and vengeance._

"Madam." Elizabeth jumped as a hand fell upon her shoulder. It was quite unusual to have anyone speak aloud during an opera. The man was _standing_ beside her. How incredibly improper! She looked up into the dark face of the Persian.

"Nadir?" she managed to whisper.

"Quickly!" He tugged at her arm and began up the aisle. She rushed after him in alarm, out the ornate double doors, up a curving staircase, down a corridor. It was highly improper but no one in the audience was able to notice such was the splendor of the performance being given by Anton and Corentine. Elizabeth was outside the amphitheatre before Wilhelm could even realize she was gone.

_It is out pure and perfect love that led me here to you...to convey to you this warning from Heaven _Corentine sang behind them in the amphitheatre.

Elizabeth followed blindly as Nadir led her at a run up carpeted stairs, one hand clasped in his, the other desperately holding her skirts to keep from stumbling on them.

"I shall miss his final scene," she managed to gasp.

"You shan't, you shan't," Nadir cried, seemingly frantic. "We must get there _before_ the final scene!" He insisted it as though their very lives depended on it.

_Your offenses have exhausted its mercy... Its terrible wrath will surely fall upon you... Yet it lies within your power to avert that wrath...with simple repentance which will save you from the worst of calamities._

"This way, this way. Watch your step. It's all right, now." He came to an abrupt stop immediately before a door. "There is no one in this box but he," he told her. "I shall be right outside. Scream if you need assistance. Do not hesitate to scream, do you understand me?" She didn't understand him at all, but she nodded helplessly and he opened the door, thrust her through it and slammed it closed again. She hovered just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to readjust from having been out in the lighted corridors. Why should she scream? she wondered looking for Erik in the darkness. Erik had never given her cause to scream but once, and that day she had been an intruder to him.

Nadir stood panting on the outside of the door. He should have told her more. He shouldn't have left her alone in there. What if Erik had already committed the act? He flung the door open, was relieved to see Elizabeth still near the door, grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around, reversing places with her and closing the door again.

_It would grieve me greatly if you... whom I had so tenderly cherished...were made an example of the justice of Heaven; _Through the door Elizabeth could hear the girl singing. How terrible to miss the end of Erik's masterpiece!

Indeed, they had not missed the final scene, Nadir sighed. Erik was still seated in the first row as he apparently had been all evening. With dread Nadir considered that he might have done what he was going to do at the beginning of the opera. It could be a dead body sitting there all this time. He dared to take a few steps closer, listening, watching, intently, for any signs of life at all.

_...and it will be infinite joy to me if I can persuade you... to ward off the terrible blow that threatens to crush you_

Yes! The man had sighed. He had leaned his head upon his hand and sighed. There was yet time. He rushed back out the door to where Elizabeth stood, her face stark white and her nerves frayed, possibly beyond repair, she was beginning to think, what with the emotions she'd experienced thus far this evening—and she had yet to encounter Erik! Surely that would evoke still more!

"Please, please!" Nadir implored her. "There isn't time. You must... stop him if he is to do anything terrible. Please."

"Nadir," she began with a sigh. Must they go through this tonight? Now? Here? Erik had not done anything terrible in the time she had known him. And how was she to stop him in the event he decided to?

"Madam, I fear he will do some violence against himself," Nadir said hurriedly, so hurriedly that the words ran together and it took Elizabeth a moment to understand. Then, her eyes widened and all at once she opened the door, slipped inside and closed it again.

_Don Juan, I entreat you grant me this consolation... don't refuse me your salvation... for which I ask with tears in my eyes_;

She moved toward him slowly, trying to discern what might have made Nadir think such a thing. She almost dared not approach him for fear he would act in greater haste. She had taken a mere two steps when the door suddenly swung open again and Nadir stood beside her holding out his hands in a why-haven't-you-done-anything-yet manner. They looked at one another, then he grasped her arm and pulled her along to the front of the box. Erik's eyes were on the stage. If he noticed the frantic pair beside him, he gave no indication.

Elizabeth shook her head at Nadir. They mustn't disturb him during the final act of his masterpiece! He was merely sitting there. He was certainly safe. She would sit beside him and wait.

But Nadir moved with the agility of a cat behind Erik and and before Elizabeth could further protest he placed her hand in Erik's, pushed the two of them gently together and then disappeared as easily as Erik often did. Erik did not seem to notice her presence, yet she felt him trembling against her.

_...Spare me the agony of seeing you condemned to eternal torments... I loved you with the utmost tenderness;_

There were tears in Erik's eyes, Elizabeth noticed. His left hand moved. Elizabeth could no longer pay attention to the singers, incredible as they were, for she was watching Erik's left hand as it descended into his pocket. She looked back up to his face. How peculiar he looked. If it weren't so obviously his hand in which Nadir had placed hers, she would have run from the box certain that it was the wrong man indeed. She stared at him. Though his hand gripped hers tightly, he appeared entirely unaware of her presence. His fist was merely clenching... nothing. The right one, anyway. The left was also clenched but there was something there. She moved against him, trying to see what it was.

_...Nothing in the world was so dear to me as you...Save yourself, I beg you, whether for your sake or mine...Once again, Don Juan, I ask it with tears in my eyes;_

And there really were tears in Corentine's eyes, Erik noted with amazement, as if she really were Doña Elvira and Anton really were Don Juan, or perhaps even Erik himself. And Anton! Oh, Anton had played the role as though he suffered it himself! Erik watched in amazement as though watching himself as Anton sobbed and shook on his knees on the stage, as his trembling hands reached out for Doña Elvira. It was perfect... perfect, just as he'd imagined it. It was his life's work, all but finished now at last. At last, it would be over. It would _all_ be over. But something moved against him once again, and he looked down. _Elizabeth?_ And there were tears in _her_ eyes as well!

_...And if the tears of one you have loved... are not enough, I beseech you by... whatever is most able to touch your heart._

Corentine reached out and touched Anton's face and he bent his head in agony at the closeness of her, at the thought that she would touch him, even now. She moved closer to him, pressing her face against his in what might have been a kiss, crying with him, holding him. Then she laid her hand upon his heart and he put his head upon her shoulder and when he lifted it again, the terrible ugliness had fallen away and Anton's beautiful bare face was bathed in golden light as the music mounted and he and Corentine ascended, leaving the audience beneath them utterly enraptured and temporarily unable to respond.

Entranced by the performance, Erik barely noticed when Elizabeth clutched at him. Elizabeth? Here beside him? Why, wasn't she supposed to be below? He stood, uncertainly. A moment ago, he had watched the end of _Don Juan Triumphant._ Now he was... he had planned... Well... he was supposed... he shifted the fingers of his left hand. Yes, it was still there. But Elizabeth was also there, and she got to her feet as well and stood beside him, her wide moist eyes searching his. Then at once she pulled him to her, her heart racing, hands groping wildly at him. _Still trapped in act three?_ he thought with wonder looking down at her. He himself was rather locked into the loneliness and despair of act four, but she gripped his face in her hands and, when her fingers could not immediately tear lose the rubber mask she abandoned the effort and simply she kissed him again and again over it and through it until he felt _for just a moment_ that he was soaring as Don Juan was.

Below and beside them the audience at last tore itself from its stupor and broke into wild applause and leapt to their feet. The applause was a roar in their ears as the cast came forth, but the two in the box heard nothing. Overcome, Erik sunk back into his chair and Elizabeth descended with him upon his lap as though they were one being, their limbs entwined. The vial fell from his hand and rolled away to the edge of the box and for a moment Erik forgot that he had intended to die tonight.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Whew! Finished! (And posted by midnight Central Daylight Time or darn awfully close to it. Thoughts? (Sighs of relief, perhaps?)


	103. Chapter 103: Enough

**Many thanks****:** A few of you have written in your reviews that you cried. Having known where the story was going, I did not cry at the end of act 5. I did, however, manage to work up some tears at your reviews... and so, as we all sit here sniffling, I thought I should share with you my views on tears. But of course, I already have, back in chapter 62 when Elizabeth points out that tears are far more precious than diamonds. Even so, I must say a bit more than that to make my point.

I would love to relate the entire story, but it is not possible because it is too long to put here... so instead I will provide you a link. You may recall Hans Christian Anderson's story "The Nightingale."

In case you have not read it or have not read it in a long time, or simply wish to read it again, I'd like to give you a link. FFN doesn't allow us to post links, so instead, here's a code to get there:

You have to type that http and then a colon and two forward slashes yourself first, then put this line into the address bar behind it, but change all the places where it has the WORD period to an actual period and the place where it has a slash to the word slash.

hca**PERIOD**gilead**PERIOD**org**PERIOD**il**SLASH**nighting.html

I just read it over about five minutes ago, and in light of _The Phantom of the Opera_, it is very interesting to read again after all these years. Same message, perhaps, different characters. Quite beautiful in its simplicity.

And here is the most important line: **You have already rewarded me... I shall never forget that I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang to you. These are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart.**

I rather think the same might be said for the heart of a writer, no?

* * *

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around.

**Author's Note****:** This one is short, but I wanted to put the next little installment up right away so you know what becomes of the little vial. PLEASE don't kill me. This is just the way it is supposed to go.

And now, your very much deserved chapter

* * *

"Stop," he whispered, displacing her by standing again. Then, more urgently. "Stop. Enough." The words were gasps. His voice was pained. His hands were wrapped around her wrists and he was gently but desperately holding her away from him. "Enough," he managed again.

She nodded her ascent and drew her hands to herself as he released her and sunk to sit on the steps.

She sat beside him. "Erik."

He held out his palm to her. "Too much," he said by way of an explanation. "Too..." and he trembled and clutched at his chest, "much."

"All right," she breathed, shaking slightly herself. "All right." Her hands managed to find each other and twine together uselessly. "It's all right." Was she trying to reassure him or herself? "Just... stay." It could be all right in the end, if only he would not suddenly disappear.

He nodded. He was trying to reassure her, but to speak was an effort. He couldn't look at her. It was simply too much. After all those months of absolute physical isolation, she had sudden been thrown to his arms, put her arms around, him her face against his, put her hands—everywhere. It was too much. It almost felt like—_pain_—to feel her against him. There she was, right there, after all this time, and he couldn't even respond. She would leave now. It would be yet another misunderstanding; she would stand up and leave now and it would be the end.

It would be the end, and then he would _end_ it, as he had planned all along to do this night anyway. At least he wouldn't have _to live with_ the pain this time. He looked down at his left hand and realized only now that it was empty and his gaze strayed across the floor for the tiny bottle he had dropped.

Too late. Her eyes had been locked upon his from the moment she withdrew her hands, waiting for some indication of what was wrong, what was happening, what he felt. Her gaze had followed his then leapt ahead. By the time his eyes fell upon the bottle her hand was upon it and she was reading the label.

Chlorodyne.

She read it silently, but he could tell. If it were anyone else, Christine for example, or Nadir, he could have explained it away. _It's a medicine_, he'd tell them. It wasn't a lie. _It's a painkiller._ That much was true. He glanced up to see her eyes narrow then he looked away. He didn't want to see the anger that would undoubtedly be there in just a moment. There was no fooling her. Likely she knew exactly how much was a normal dose; this was far more. He would not look at her.

She said nothing, made no sound, and he did not look upon her face, but he could feel the air change within box five as she realized that had Nadir waited until it was over it would have been far too late. He looked at the hand that had dropped the bottle. How had that happened? He focused on a single finger bone between the first and second knuckles of the first finger on his left hand, memorized its shape, criticized the bulbous edges, wondered if her bones looked the same as his beneath the flesh, tried to ignore the searing stare he could feel radiating straight through his skull to his torso until he could bear it no longer, and he raised his head keeping his eyes averted as long as he could manage.

To his surprise, there was no anger, no shock and no surprise in her eyes. It may be that her heart was full of regret for ever having left, but there had been no way for her to know and anyway, no regret showed on her face. It was a look of acceptance not merely of him but even _of what he had almost done_—what he could _still _do, if he truly wished to, for she held out her open palm with the deadly vial upon it. She wouldn't try to stop him. He took it from her carefully, between thumb and forefinger and held it to the light as he had below. He swirled the deadly mixture and met her eyes again. They were wide and shimmering with fear, but she made no move to stop him. Still watching her, he removed the stopper and cast it aside. With his eyes he asked her and in her eyes he saw the answer.

It could be the end. He had done what he set out to do six months ago—something that twenty years earlier he would have never thought possible. He had finally, truly and completely, let go of Christine, and he had arranged for someone else—at last there was someone of whom he could approve!—to be there when he was gone. No, he _had not _managed to atone for the death of Joseph Buquet, the woman upon whom the chandelier fell, or Comte Philippe de Chagny, but how could he? That was something he could never manage. He'd resigned himself to believing it didn't matter. Forgiveness was something he understood only in fragments. But he'd told the story at last and it seemed some had understood. Someday, perhaps the world would forgive him. In the meantime, so long as the music continued, he would be immortal. With his death the Opera would revert back to the people. Wasn't that as it should be? It could be the end at last.

But it wasn't. It wasn't the end because the answer was there in her eyes and he could not believe, seeing it there now, that he had missed it all along. He _was_ loved for himself!

And she would love him _even if he went through with it_! It might be the perfect end, actually. It was the pinnacle of achievement, really, for something like him to have earned someone's love at last. He could die content now, and he was suddenly so thankful that he had waited rather than ending his life sooner. If it were an opera, perhaps she would die with him. He stared into her eyes.

He turned and poured the vile mixture onto the floor, the bottle slipping from trembling fingers as he did so.

He put his head in his hands and sat a long time considering what he had done—or just failed to do—and what the consequences of it might be. She was still beside him, waiting for him to do something, and yet he had not the vaguest notion of what it was he should do. Life as he knew it _had _ended that night. The rest of it loomed before him, uncharted waters filled with sea monsters and whirlpools, unmapped terrain of dark forests and steep mountains over which she seemed to absolutely promise to lead him. Why then, did he hesitate yet again?

When at last he felt he could stand—and it was a long while at that—he offered her his arm as he had only dreamed of doing with anyone all his life. She threaded her arm through his carefully lest she overwhelm him again, and the made their way carefully, for he was still quite out of breath, down the stairs.

He'd fully expected everyone to be gone, and most everyone was. Or, at least, everyone who had arrived as part of a couple had departed immediately, but others lingered here and there, pairing up or trying to. Erik cringed. That hadn't been his point at all. That was certainly not his intention, but perhaps it could not be helped. He had warned Christine about music such as this once... Christine... who had undoubtedly left with Anton. Christine had left with Anton. After _that_. He wondered if they'd be married by morning. Or worse. Strangely, it didn't bother him in the least. He was almost... relieved?

They moved through the crowd carefully. This must be how it felt to be made of glass; every time someone brushed against him he felt certain he would shatter.

He caught snippets of conversation around him. _I hadn't know that part of the Don Juan story,_ someone was saying._ If I had known it was like that, I'd have had far more sympathy. It seems most of the stories begin at act three._ How frustrating. He would have to explain it was a work of his own—well, not _quite_ imagination. What would the crowd do, he wondered, if he suddenly bared himself as he had that night with Anton? Undoubtedly, many would still scream and run. But tonight, it seemed a few might stand their ground.

Ladies passed by him, handkerchiefs to their eyes. Crying still? he wondered in amazement. _Still?_ A chill shot through him. He had been a fool these twenty years to tell himself it could not be performed.

Nadir was waiting not far from the box, making a show of having been there only quite by accident.

Erik appeared pale and uncertain, taking slow careful steps, and for a moment Nadir was certain he had guided Elizabeth to the box too late, but as her eyes met his he was reassured, for the moment anyway. Though she appeared more than a little worried, watching Erik's feet carefully as they descended the steps, repeatedly looking from the space in front of them to his eyes and back again as they crossed the foyer, patting his elbow reassuringly with her free hand, she conveyed no emergency.

Yes, thought Erik, Nadir was clearly pretending that he just happened to be there, for as he and Elizabeth exchanged glances it was clear that he had known Erik's intentions. He had brought Elizabeth there... to stop him? Then _Nadir_ had stopped him! Nadir. His friend. But they both turned away, Erik with something like shame that Nadir knew what he had almost done, Nadir as he always did, _out of respect_, he would say.

Nadir watched Erik and Elizabeth descend the stairs. They would disappear through a wall somewhere now, thought Nadir, into one of Erik's tunnels to hurry to the house on the lake and talk about all that had come to pass since they had seen each other last—or perhaps they would not manage tonight to talk at all.

He was, therefore, disappointed when instead Erik merely walked Elizabeth out the door, arranged for a carriage for her, kissed her hand, bowed deeply, reentered, and leaned heavily against the frame of the door. Such was Nadir's utter confusion at Erik's apparent self-denial that he could not even find the words to ask him what he was doing. Erik's demeanor was entirely different from before the opera, but he was still quiet, and Nadir wondered how Elizabeth could be certain he was not going to do anything terrible in her absence. If he had been in her position, he would have remained all night, he thought. He sighed resignedly. It would have to be he, then, who remained all night. He set to following Erik as he meandered down corridors and wandered, seemingly aimlessly. Suddenly—and quite accidentally—Erik encountered Marcelle who greeted him with a smile _and a kiss_. Nadir almost collapsed in surprise when she tugged his bewildered friend into her dressing room. Still overcome with the events of the evening, Erik was unable to resist her.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** Listen. Don't kill me. After 102, you at least know you can trust me, right? Just... trust me... This had to happen. There's a reason. But if you want to berate me in a review, I'll understand.


	104. Chapter 104: Trapped

**Author's Note****:** This is crazy, right? I posted last night, this morning and now this evening. I could probably post again today if I really wanted to push it. Reminds me of Gaston Leroux, actually...

For those who are wondering "WTF?" This in the Wolf edition there is a great description from Jules Gaston Leroux, Gaston's son. He said:

_When beginning a novel he worked only in the mornings, between five and eight. As the work neared its end, his focus became intense. What calm descended then! The household sank into a stupefying silence. No more piano, no more songs or cascading laughter, no more visits... Hush. The housework was done on tiptoe... It'll be finished tomorrow, he would announce one evening. We knew what that meant. The next morning, everyboyd, from the moment they got up, was on the qui-vive: mymother, my sister, I and all the servants, still fairly numerous in those days, and who, in our house, given their long service, were considered family. The more minutes passed by, the more we were on tenterhooks. My father, revolver lying on his bureau, was finishing the epilogue. When he wrote teh word "end" he squeezed off a shot in teh direction of the balcony window. It was the signal so long awaited. From the on belles rang, drums and trumpets were unleashed, as well as iron pot overs, pots, hammers, and any other utensil capable of making noise... until we were breathless, and in Indian file, a howling mob, we would run through the garden and house, from the pantry to the drawing room._

Sadly, in my neighborhood, I won't be able to fire a shot out the window when I'm finished... but in the meantime, I am working rather furiously 'round the clock. Dearest rappleyea suggested loading the pistol with blanks. I've asked my husband to look into it for me.

* * *

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

* * *

Elizabeth arrived at the Hotel Royal moments after Erik bid her farewell. It was, afterall, merely a few blocks away. She wasn't tired in the least, however, and despite the late hour, she went for a walk to clear her head. Strangely, her feet led her back to the Opera, and she wondered why she had not insisted she simply walk back. It was, after all, quite a short distance. Erik would not have heard of it, however, she was certain.

The door might be unlocked. She might go back inside and sit with Nadir. Erik was obviously too overcome to talk. She wouldn't bother him tonight. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the next day. He had promised, after all. Not with words, no, but she saw the recognition in his eyes at last. For once, she was certain he'd understood. Amazing that with all the words they had spoke, it was in silence that he understood her.

No, she thought, turning away. She would not go inside tonight and trouble Nadir. He was busy. By the look on his face, he would spend the night worrying about Erik. It was better this way. Nadir would talk to him perhaps. She herself couldn't imagine being in a room with him and keeping her hands where propriety demanded she did. She walked slowly back down Rue de l'Opera towards the hotel.

He was still Erik as she remembered him. There was just one more exciting facet to get to know. She had feared, for a moment, that he would be different, that having at last discovered that he was what she wanted—_all_ she wanted—that she would find he no longer needed her in any way. Indeed, it rather seemed so, for once he resolved to pour out the Chlorodyne he was suddenly very distant. Even so, she was certain that he was her Erik underneath it all, and with a start she realized she had just referred to him as hers in her thoughts. When had she begun doing that? It seemed she ought to know his mind on the matter before she gave herself over to such manner of thinking.

The air seemed to grow more humid as she drew near the hotel, and just as she entered the rain began to fall behind her. She remembered returning here from a café in the rain once and smiled recalling that Erik had been in her room waiting for her. No, it hadn't been the best of circumstances. He'd been distraught. Even so, it would be so pleasant to open the door and find him inside this night as well. She made her way down the hall and turned the key in the lock, smiling to herself at the thought.

Upon opening the door, however, she suddenly burst out, "What are you doing in my room?"

Indeed, her room was occupied, but the man who sat anxiously waiting for her tapping the toe of one large heavy boot against the other was not Erik. It was Wilhelm.

He glared at her. "Ah, the lady of the opera arrives at last," he said grandly (and loudly) in French.

"Keep your voice down, Wilhelm," she responded in German.

"From whom are we hiding, Elizabeth?" he asked. "Shall we lurk in shadows then?" He'd switched to German but hadn't lowered his voice a bit.

"We aren't hiding, Wilhelm. It's late. People will be trying to sleep. Have you noticed the time?"

He smiled sarcastically at her, a thin, closed-lipped smile. "Yes, I have noticed the time," he said at last, holding up his hand in which he held his watch. "I have rather been watching the time, as a matter of fact. The opera ended long ago. I waited, Elizabeth."

She felt her breath leave her. She had entirely forgotten that she had gone to the opera _with Wilhelm_. She had left without. How long had she and Erik sat on those steps? And then she had gone walking! "Oh, Wilhelm!" she began.

"Don't, Elizabeth, don't. Spare me. A little honesty would have been nice. If you've become involved with the Oriental fellow, all you had to do was say so. Instead you've got me traveling all across Europe—"

"Germany to France is hardly all across, Wilhelm. And you were coming anyway for Freud."

"Do you really think I came all this way to see Little Sigmund Freud?" His voice grew louder.

"Charcot, then. But your telegram said Freud." She was at a loss. What was he trying to say?

"How else was I to see you again when your letters became short and without meaning?"

"You..." she struggled to find the words. "You used Sigmund Freud... to get me... to come here?"

"Oh, stop acting so offended, Elizabeth! It's not like you've never distorted the truth before!" He folded his arms and his blue eyes were dark under his blond brows. It was serious. Any other time he'd have made a joke by now.

Distorted the truth? Well, surely she had. Hadn't everyone? But to what exactly was he referring?

* * *

Poor Marcelle. She had the body of Venus but self-worth that was rather inversely proportionate; her face was beautiful, her hair, usually neat and tame in a delicate bun falling in thick full curls to her shoulders. She had the body of a goddess but her mind was not her most impressive feature. There was only one thing on it at present, and that was the power that the man before her held over her future. Perhaps that is not entirely accurate. Perhaps there were two things on her mind. Indeed, there were most definitely two things on her mind, for her lips, painted a bright red, came into contact with Erik's the moment she closed the door.

It took Erik's mind a moment to register what was happening. There was no sensation in the rubber lips and as she came close, his eyes closed instinctively, but even with his pathetic little experience in this realm, it was absolutely obvious that he was being kissed by a girl whose name he did not even know. He would have asked but found his mouth entirely occupied. He would have told her no, but he was momentarily struck dumb with absolute disbelief. He would have pushed her away, but his arms seemed to be made of the same substance as his face, as were, apparently, his legs. He sunk onto the nearest surface that could be sat upon, his legs weak and the forgotten fear of fainting back stage only a few hours ago suddenly upon him again.

It was perhaps a mistake, for it allowed the girl the opportunity to climb into his lap, and not in such a manner as Elizabeth had descended to his lap to remain close to him. This one came forward and placed herself in his lap in the most unladylike posture imaginable.

"Stop," he told her, but softly and without resolve.

She paused, studying him carefully but did not stop entirely. Her hands were beneath his chin and it took him a moment to realize she was attempting to untie his cravat. His eyes widened as she pushed his jacket back off his shoulders. "What's wrong, Monsieur?"

He stared at her. "I don't even know your name," he managed as she leaned forward to kiss him yet again.

"Marcelle," she murmured into his mouth. This, then, was how women behaved with a normal man, he wondered. But no, it couldn't be. Not all women, not all the time. Unless this was the result of _Don Juan Triumphant_. He cursed himself in his mind. As Nadir had worried, opening night would indeed be closing night, though not for the reasons they had feared. It should be stopped or the population of the city could be doubled within the year. Then all thoughts left his mind as the girl's tongue found his.

His heart pounded against his breastbone. Hadn't he considered that Don Juan would have died of sensory overload? Was _that _to come true as well now? He had just promised with his eyes not to take action against his own life; if the morning found him dead, it would look at though he had broken his promise. It was this thought that at last gave him the resolve the grip the girl by the arms and hold her away from him.

He looked at her and she cocked her head to one side and reached forward. Her fingers were entangled in his collar and tugging. This would be the first of many steps towards... No! But she wouldn't!

"You don't even know my name," he managed.

"I will when you tell it to me." She raised her eyebrows and puckered her lips seductively.

He pushed her away. "Slow down," he told her. "Tell me first, what did you think of the production this evening?"

She looked distracted. "I thought everyone performed well, Monsieur."

"But what did you think of the _story_?"

"It was interesting." The child had no mind. That explained what she was doing here with him. It didn't, however, explain what he was doing here with her.

"So are you Eva or Elvira?" he asked her.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek, then drew back suddenly. Such an odd texture, she thought cocking her head to the other side. "Neither, Monsieur," she replied. "I'm a dancer. Remember?"

She had taken it _literally_? My, she really _was_ rather dull. "I mean, what would you have done, in their places? If, for example, I were not really me, but someone else. Someone like Don Juan. Someone entirely vile and hideous. What would you do then?"

She lowered her head and looked at him through her thick lashes. "I should think that would be rather interesting, Monsieur," she said pivoting on his lap in a manner which made him _most_ uncomfortable.

He stared into her eyes. "I don't love you," he told her. "I don't even know you."

"That's okay."

He was horrified. "But..." he indicated their position with his hands. "You don't love me," he told her.

"I could pretend to, if you like that," she suggested coyly.

He displaced her suddenly by standing. "Have you learned nothing at all from this production?" he heard himself ask her.

She squinted at him. "Monsieur?"

"Act three! Act three," he told her vehemently. "Without love, it is emptiness."

"Yes, but it's only an opera, Monsieur," she replied.

She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "Only an opera?" he managed. "Only an opera! Indeed! It seems that everyone thinks so." He was gone, hurrying to put distance between himself and her as rapidly as possible. He found the nearest passageway and disappeared below. This would be the absolute end of this face, he vowed, peeling at it before he even reached the lake. It was finished. It didn't matter if it was one more piece of the terrible opera coming true; he was finished with looking like them. He had it detached entirely by the time he reached the house on the lake, which he entered at a run as though the devil himself were behind him. He threw the mask onto a low table as he walked by and went immediately to the mirror to scrub lose the remainder of the adhesive. It pulled loose far more easily than the former substance and at last he looked up, almost relieved to gaze into the familiar sunken eyes and vacant hole in the center of his face. He was not attractive, but he was _safe_. He put his face in his hands and took a series of slow deep breaths. It was over at last. Over. He didn't really even have to watch it again. He could remain behind the scenes. Or he could leave. He had told Christine he was going away. It didn't matter where. He could just... go. Alas, that would perhaps not be such a safe idea.

It was late; clearly time for rest, but he found he moved mechanically about the house, readying himself to go out. He attached the black silk mask, gathered up his cloak and hat and was back outside before he'd had a moment to think clearly about where he was going.

* * *

"Ah, but I am not the first man ever to be in your bedroom, am I, Elizabeth?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Wilhelm. I was married. I had a child. I believe it is a foregone conclusion."

"Don't act so pious, Elizabeth. There have been men _since_. Or at least _one man_."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You don't have to hide it, Elizabeth. Hotel staff love to gossip if you catch them at the right moment. You were here a considerable amount of time, but that's nothing compared to the amount of time you were here but really gone."

She frowned deeply at him. "What are you suggesting?"

"Elizabeth, there were men's pajamas in your laundry. I don't need to _suggest_ anything."

"Wilhelm, if that were true—"

"Oh, it's absolutely true. If you hadn't left the following day perhaps something might have come of it, too. But you did leave. You left the next day, with your fellow, no doubt. Tell me, where did you go, Elizabeth?"

"Wilhelm, you are being absolutely impossible."

"I'm being impossible? I am? After all I have done for you, you do this and I am the one who is impossible?"

She dropped her voice in both pitch and volume. "That's not fair Wilhelm. I was a patient, and not even yours. And I paid handsomely for the treatment I received."

"And after that? What of the years after that?"

* * *

Erik hurried out into the darkness. It was late, and he was simply taking a chance. He had no idea where to go, but he would try the only place that felt right, the only place he knew to look, and hope—there it was again! Hope! That terrible thing that made him continue to blunder through life—that it was the correct place.

He was dismayed to find that it had begun to rain. Here he was again, blundering through the darkness in a storm to find a woman who utterly baffled him. His cloak was soaked through when he arrived. Perhaps some things never change. Next he was slipping up stairwells and down hallways that he remembered vaguely from his prior sojourn here. At last he found the room. He found it not by checking the book at the desk, nor by listening to staff or following his target. No. He found the room because it was the one in which a man and a woman were conversing loudly and angrily. In German.

* * *

"I have been entirely self-sufficient Wilhelm. You saved me once. Don't allow yourself to believe you did so over again every day."

"Where did you go when you left here, Elizabeth? It was long before you went to England, if you went to England at all!"

Erik flattened himself against the wall and glanced about for a shadow into which to melt. Fortunately, this late in the evening, there were many. He faded into the space beside the door next to theirs and listened. Amazing how fast old habits return, he noticed. There was no one in the next room; he was certain of it from the lack of sounds within, so he slipped inside to listen where he could not be detected.

"Of course I was in England, Wilhelm! Don't be absurd! I wrote you from England! I received your telegram!"

"But where did you go between there and here?"

She was clearly exasperated and Erik understood the reason in an instant. He did not own her. No one could own her. She would do as she pleased. Oh, he'd been guilty of it, too, he knew it. How could a man _not _be? And yet he wanted to rush in and defend her from the loud-voiced man whom he was certain was the same man with his arm around her down below. But he couldn't, could he? That would make them two men fighting barbarically over a woman. It would be Christine and Raoul over again, and sadly, the ability to win the fight did not guarantee the love of the woman. Instead, he waited in the shadows and listened.

"If it will quiet you, I shall tell you. I went to a small house owned by the Comte de Chagny. It's rather far from here, but there is no need to show it to you. And no, he does _not_ reside there. I went there alone." She looked away. _That_ wasn't exactly true.

On the other side of the wall, Erik's posture became a little less erect. She denies me, he thought.

"And these?" Wilhelm suddenly produced from beneath his coat a bundle of dark colored silk and threw it upon Elizabeth's bed. "Then I imagine these are the Comte's pajamas?"

For a moment, Elizabeth truly suspected the years at the asylum had actually driven him entirely mad. She stared at him and considered that he were nearly twice her size, that he could easily overpower her, and that if he were mad, she could not trust him not to harm her. She covered her fear as best she could and reached for the fabric he had tossed down. They were indeed pajamas! And she recognized them. She remembered purchasing them one day, seemingly long ago... Oh _no_. No, no, no. She had rather planned to continue to deny the pajamas. Certainly, hotel staff could be given to gossip, but one could always claim the gossip was all lies. This was—inexplicable.

She sighed with resignation. "No, Wilhelm. They aren't."

"Then whose are they, Elizabeth?"

That was a question she positively would not answer. "Wilhelm, why are we having this conversation?"

But he would not let it drop. "I know whose pajamas they were."

"Oh, do you now?" Erik was smiling behind the wall. He had never heard her this way before. She had scolded him, but this was a true argument and her utterly sarcastic tone amused him. The oaf could guess to his heart's content; Erik was certain he'd been entirely undetected.

"As a matter of fact I do." There was a pause. "That Opera freak."

Silence. Opera freak. _That _was a new one. Erik slid down the wall. _How_ the man could know was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. _Freak_, he thought. After all this, he was still nothing more than a freak.

"Wilhelm," her voice was a warning.

"Yes, Elizabeth, I know all about it. You've been obsessed this Opera freak ever since you treated that hysterical singer!"

Her voice was shrill. "He is not a freak!" she screamed. "You will not call him that word in my presence."

"Ah, it's true, then, isn't it?"

He was winning the argument now; there was nothing she could say. "Wilhelm, I am not going to discuss this with you."

"What's to discuss, Elizabeth? Just admit the truth of what you've done and I'll drop it. That's the real harm done, Elizabeth is that you've kept me waiting all these years and then behind my back you've—"

She cut him off and her voice was harsh. "I haven't _done_ anything, Wilhelm—"

"No, of course not." It was his turn to be sarcastic now. "What was he doing here all that time, Elizabeth?"

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "Dying, Wilhelm." Oh, that was the easy way to explain it, Erik despaired. She was a mere martyr now, trying to save the life of a dying freak. He'd seen the love in her eyes tonight, but now she denied it. She was _ashamed_ of it! "_He was dying_ if you must know."

"Dying eh? I'll bet he was dying. Oh yes, that's what they call it here, isn't it?" He switched to French for the euphemism. "The little death?"

"Wilhelm!" She was indignant. If Erik had had any dignity left at all he would have been as well, but as it was he simply leaned against the wall and listened tiredly.

"I'll be you were dying, too, Elizabeth. Dying a little each night, I imagine, with the deformed genius of the Opera cellar!" Something didn't sound right. This wasn't a man in agony as he lost the love of his life. No. It was more like a dog growling over possession of a bone. Erik's fists tightened. She is a woman, he thought. Not your property. "I guess I wrong about you after all."

"Wilhelm, you have been listening to far too many gossiping maids!"

"No, this part I got from your notes, my dear."

On Elizabeth's side of the wall, it was as though the world had stopped turning. Until now it had been a bit of a game, a sort of verbal tennis match and though it had been a foul to call Erik a freak, it had still be part of the game. This, however, was inexcusable. She sunk into the chair, breathless. "You _read_ my _notes_?"

On Erik's side of the wall the world was perhaps turning faster, turning his stomach and making his head spin. _She kept notes?_

"We _collaborate_, Elizabeth. When did your notes become secret?"

She felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her. "When... when we're _not_ collaborating, Wilhelm." She gasped for air. "When I made... made a... _promise_..." She felt faint.

"A promise to him? You make promises to him? What promises has he ever made you? Will he make an honest woman of you, Elizabeth?"

"Wilhelm, I am entirely honest already without Erik need make anything of me."

"I'm not sure that's so after all I've heard here." He folded his arms and for a moment it was a bit of a stalemate. She was about to rise and ask him to go but he was not ready to let the issue of marriage drop. "Do you know how long I have waited for you to get over this ridiculous fear of commitment? Do you know how many women I could have married, who would have made good wives, who _wanted_ to be married to me?"

"You should have married them then, Wilhelm. I told you I was not available." Her voice was distant and tired. She was surrendering.

"And yet suddenly, it seems you are. Aren't you? _Or have you refused him too?_"

She was not sure why she felt suddenly compelled to admit it, having lied to Wilhelm about other things, but before she could think it through she heard herself say aloud "I would marry him in an instant, Wilhelm, if he asked." Her resolve had returned. She clearly _meant that_.

Behind the wall Erik's eyes were wide. His heart pounded and his stomach heaved. He crawled across the floor. Best to get out of this room as quickly as possible, he considered, as though it was presently vacant, it was not entirely unoccupied. There were suitcases and toiletries. A moment ago he'd have had no qualms about his ability to slip out undetected even once it was occupied again, but feeling this way, he could not be as certain. He dragged himself to the door.

"And yet he doesn't ask, does he?" No, he _hadn't _asked. He hadn't even _considered _asking. He'd given up the hope of _that_ long ago. But she said... she had said... Could she have really _meant_ that? He glanced back at the wall as though he expected he could see her expression through the wall.

"What do you want me to say, Wilhelm?"

"Nothing. You've said quiet enough already." And with that he stormed out slamming her door. It was but an instant before Erik realized his mistake. He slipped into the tiny closet as the door to his room slammed open and then closed again. He was in Wilhelm's closet, and Wilhelm had just returned.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** See what I mean about how it couldn't just end there? It just... couldn't. But comments are still totally welcome and, in fact, begged for. Thanks in advance.


	105. Chapter 105: Confessions

**Author's Note****:** I apologize for making you wait, but I think the length will make up for it. This one took longer because... well... it is rather long-ish, in addition to the fact that it was a weekend so my husband wanted to see me. I would have posted it in two pieces, but that would have defeated the title entirely, I think. I apologize in advance if posts slow down a bit over the next week, but I have to take the LPC test for state licensure on August 4, so I'll be reviewing.

**WARNING****:** I KNOW this section is incredibly confusing... feel FREE to ask for clarification. OR you can just hang in there and trust me because all the weird little bits that get left hanging I do promise to explain here, there, and yon throughout the rest of the remaining chapters.

**Disclaimer****:** _The Phantom of the Opera_ owns me, not the other way around. Everything here is 100 percent Leroux based unless I make an unfortunate mistake, which you should immediately tell me to correct. And we're only calling the Persian Nadir because he needed a name. Don't assume a Kay history.

* * *

Standing in the dark, Erik considered his choices. He could stand here indefinitely and wait for the man to fall asleep, trusting his ability to disappear into shadow in case the man happened to open the closet door. Or he could burst from the closet and face the man who dared to call him freak to the woman he loved. Here his thoughts tripped over one another and tumbled to a halt. He loved her? Could it be true? It didn't feel at all like before and yet—what else could it be? Why, then, he could throw open the door to the closet and announce that he loved her, that she loved him back and that she had just proclaimed aloud that she would marry him. _That, _however, would be truly foolish. He would certainly _not _do _that_.

He could strangle the man in an instant and simply walk out the door unconcerned. Yes, he was physically capable of that, but perhaps somewhere along the way he had lost that part of himself who was emotionally able to manage it. It had been... well, since Comte Philippe that he had not even attempted anything of the sort. That left a direct confrontation out of the equation. He waited in silence. An idea would surely come to him. In the meantime, silence was the best defense. There were a number of sharp bangs moving away from the door, then back and away again. With his eyes closed in the darkness of the closet Erik could gauge the man's distance from him by sound and visualize where in the room he was standing. He was beside the closet, near the door, and then at last, fate was merciful, for he slammed out the door once again.

* * *

There was a sudden knock at the door and Elizabeth, certain it was Wilhelm back with one last nasty comment threw the door open angrily saying "What do you—" and she stopped suddenly, for she was stunned to find Erik. He watched her expression subside from anger to surprise to something like joy. Joy? At merely his _presence_? He smiled slightly beneath the mask at that.

But what was he to say now? At the moment he left the Opera, he'd moved mechanically, knowing he needed to find her but without any sense of what he would do once he had. Slogging along through the slanting rain, he'd practiced an explanation, but nothing conveyed the proper meaning. Perhaps he should simply do as Marcelle had done: wrap his arms around her and kiss her without a word. But the conversation he'd just overheard had interfered. She had _denied_ him. That could perhaps be explained away as an attempt to protect him, but what was that about the Comte's pajamas? If she was going to pretend the _house_ was Raoul's, why not the pajamas, too? No, they were the _Opera freak's_ _pajamas._ At least she had tried to defend him, though. But then, he'd been _dying_. And _she'd kept notes_. He was a patient and a mental case, nothing more. It was easy to understand until she suddenly claimed she would marry him in an instant.

Confused, he stood in doorway, unsure what to do next. She looked at him. He stood rigidly with his arms tight at his sides, his back terribly bent and a simple piece of black fabric for a mask. His eyes were almost invisible beneath the little piece of silk, but his posture conveyed pain. He stared at her and made no move to enter even when she stepped aside invitingly. He seemed lethargic, and for a moment she feared he had taken the Chlorodyne after all and—she could scarcely speculate—changed his mind afterwards? Simply come to say goodbye? At last she let go of the doorknob, grasped him by both shoulders and literally pulled him through the door and closed it behind him. She had a stunning sense of déjà vu as she realized he was soaked through.

"Erik," she whispered. He stood and stared and said nothing. She wrapped her arms around him and he allowed it. "You got caught in the rain again," she said softly. He had the strangest sensation for just a moment that he was just any man who had been caught in the rain coming home. She pulled of his wet cloak and hung it. It was as though they had never been apart, as though she'd never gone away! And yet it was also entirely different, for this time she simply took the cloak, comfortably, as though he had been hers for years. Before he could protest she had removed his wet coat as well and he found himself in a chair with a blanket around his shoulders. "We'll not go through what happened last time again," she told him as she met his eyes. He sighed. She continually confused him, but this was far more comfortable than his encounter with Marcelle at the Opera.

Even so, she was staring at him, and he couldn't say a word. He simply stared. She was holding his hands now, or the tips of his fingers at least, but he was too tired to focus on his anxiety regarding their texture, temperature and odor. And she looked elated. She squeezed his hands with apparent disregard for any discomfort they caused her. She stood before him, trying to gaze into his eyes, which he directed everywhere but at her. It was highly improper to be here at all with the door closed and he knew it. He'd known it before, but the conversation he had just heard brought it still more to the forefront of his mind. People knew he'd been here. More appropriately, people knew someone had been here. Only _that man_ knew it had been he and that was because she had kept notes. _Notes!_ He was a case again! But her eyes in box five! _He had been so certain!_

And now here he sat while she stood before him. But there was nothing he could do but sit and feel her fingers squeezing his. "Sit," he managed to tell her at last, trying to shift out the chair, but she shook her head at the chair and sat on the bed. Then she realized she could not reach him from there, and tried to convince him to come to her. "It's just like the settee at the house," she reasoned. "Besides, haven't we been here before?"

At last he compromised by bringing the chair closer. She put a hand on his knee and he recoiled. "Erik," she insisted. "Never. Under any circumstances."

He laughed in spite of himself. "You remember that," he said.

"Of course I do. It is why I came back." She smiled at him genuinely, but her words only reminded him that in order to be back, she'd first have to have left. "London was too far from you."

"Your letter said you had work at the hospital." Everything he'd just heard was miles away. _She had left._ He had rather forgotten that she'd left until she mentioned it. For a moment in box five, he'd forgotten absolutely everything.

"It provided me the reasonable excuse I needed." She clutched at him.

"You cannot possibly understand," he told her, turning away.

"Nor can you," she said simply.

It was true. He could not understand it. He hadn't understood her the first time, but this leaving and returning was stranger still. Christine had returned for fear when he had commanded her to. And yet, she, too, had later returned. _That_ was desperation. And this? What was this? Pity? No, for she had just said moments ago... And once before he was nearly certain she had said... But feverish memories are unreliable, and he couldn't take the chance to ask her how she felt. It was far easier, instead to ask something else.

"Why did you leave?" It was actually _why did you leave me_, but that last simply would not issue from his lips, for it was not as easy to ask as he had suspected. But it meant almost the same thing, did it not?

"I—Erik, it was _you_ who left," she began but he interrupted her.

"England?" He found his tone was suddenly bitter, in spite of himself

She sighed. "Dear Erik," she said, and he frowned, leaning closer. Now she called him dear, but she had just returned from England. It could be just a manner of speaking. She'd always used that word. "It wasn't leaving, so much. There was someone I had to go to see and—"

"Wilhelm," he supplied and she stopped and stared.

He had it wrong, but where had he gotten the name? "How do you know of Wilhelm?"

Her voice was that of a woman caught keeping a secret and his heart sank. She had argued with the man only a moment ago, but she clearly intended to keep Wilhelm a secret. Then it was as he had suspected the day he left. And yet, her eyes... he put his head in his hands. How could it be so impossible to understand? Perhaps he was fortunate not to have to worry about these things that everyone else had.

"No matter, Erik. Wilhelm is nothing but..." she was about to say my employer, but she had decided back in England that she was finished with it. "At this point nothing but a bother. And it wasn't he I went to see. What I was trying tell you, Erik, is if you hadn't disappeared I was going to ask you to go to England with me. But then you left. Why did _you_ leave, Erik?"

Go to England with her? But it was too late now. "Wilhelm," he said again, and this time it was both an accusation and an explanation. "Do you know what I could have done to him? I could have killed him, you know."

"Stop that, Erik. That's not at all like you," she said, but he held up a hand to stop her.

His voice was changed. He had been serious all along, but now it was suddenly a matter far more grave. She had made some very bold statements about him, and she knew not what he truly was. He had hidden it all from her. "Not at all like me? Do you even know what is like me? Do you know what I did with the Vicomte de Chagny?"

From his tone she was very certain she did not want to know, but things such as this must always be said or they would come up again and again until they ruined everything. She felt a sense of dread, for she remembered both Raoul and Christine accusing Erik of murder. She was absolutely certain she did not want to hear what he would say next, but she said nothing and he went on.

"When he and the daroga came out of the torture chamber, I promised Christine I would take them above and release them. I carried the daroga up, but the vicomte—comte—whichever—I carried him _down_. There is another cellar below and I..." he paused and looked at her. She was doing her best not to react and thus far had managed. Her face was pale and placid. "I chained him to the wall." He sounded incredulous at his own actions. "I _left_ him there to _die_," he said, and he sounded horrified.

He expected her to be horrified and perhaps under it all she was, but she looked more... confused. Finally she asked "You put _Nadir._.. in a _torture_ chamber?"

"No, he... dropped in there on his own," he said, "he brought the boy with him." Aloud it sounded even worse. "It is not like it sounds," he began, then stopped. It was a terrible explanation and no excuse at all. "Actually, it is far worse than it sounds," he amended. "This is why I left. I might have done it all over again." There were no tears, but it was agony. Tears perhaps could have washed it away, but he didn't deserve that. He needed to remember it and suffer. It was the only way to ensure it didn't happen again. "Yes, I would have done it over again, most certainly, for if you would have stayed, eventually I would have gotten so used to you that I couldn't bear to have you go. And then eventually this Wilhelm would have turned up and I would have killed him."

"Wilhelm is nothing but the man who continually pursues me no matter how many times I say no, and to harm him in any way for jealousy would have been a terrible waste of your time and talents. Besides, even if it were not so, you _didn't kill Raoul._"

"I intended to!" His fist came down silently upon his own knee but with a force that made her jump. She reached for his hand nonetheless.

"Then Raoul... he _escaped_?" This, then, was part of why Raoul could never forgive him.

"No! I _let him go_. Because of Christine." It made perfect sense in his head, but aloud it sounded ridiculous. How long had Raoul been chained? A few minutes perhaps? Certainly no more than an hour. But the intention had been...

"You changed your mind." It sounded so simple. "You let him go," she said. "Because you loved her."

"Absolutely. But I had _intended_—"

"You _thought_ about leaving him to die. You _did not do it_. My Erik does not kill people." She said it with a touch to the side of his face then her hand on his shoulder, and she said it with was such confidence that he suddenly needed to prove her wrong.

"Not _that _time," he said.

She waited. She did nothing more than raise her eyebrows. And there it was.

"There was a man named Joseph Buquet," he began, and he relayed the terrible rivalry that had occurred between them, Buquet in his desperate search for the Phantom, he in his own desperation seeking not to be found, and at last, the man's turning up in the torture chamber, already having hanged himself before Erik could possibly have even realized he was there.

"You didn't do it," Elizabeth rationalized. "He hanged himself. Terrible, yes, but—" She had to insist that it was not Erik's fault because if that could be Erik's fault, then what of the man _she herself had once found hanging_? That would make that _her _fault? "Not your fault." His eyes were distraught. "Not your fault, Erik," she said again, reaching for him.

He avoided her hands. He was growing angry now. "It was a device designed to drive one to madness. The gibbet was provided and there was no way out. I designed it and I left a place open where a person searching for me might find his way in. It is _clearly_ my fault as much as if I had put the rope around his neck." And as soon as those words were out of his mouth, another memory intruded.

"There was a man in Persia," he began again. "That time, I did put the rope around his neck. Not only that once. There were countless men in Persia. I do mean countless. I never even tried to keep track of the numbers. You will say that it is not my fault because it was something I had to do, to kill or be killed, but you would be wrong. It would have been a far better decision to die."

She was baffled, curious, confused. Nadir had never spoken of it, but he had cryptically suggested numerous times that Erik was capable of terrible things. "If you had...?"

"If I had what?" He was angry with _himself._ Why was he speaking that way _to her_?

"If you had died. What would have happened to the others?"

"Don't try to trap me!"

"I am only asking Erik!"

"They would have died anyway. But at least then it would not have been _my fault_."

He seethed. He was very angry now. There was nothing she could do, for it seemed certain anything she said would upset him further. It was not at all what she had hoped for on the way out of box five, but it did not change her heart in the least.

She nodded that she was still listening and said nothing more as he launched into a listing of all the details he could remember of this death or that death, and in one way or another, even in cases where it had been an absolute accident, he found a way to lay the blame entirely upon himself. At last after a long pause he met her eyes and said, "I dropped a chandelier on an innocent woman."

Elizabeth tried to refrain from widening her eyes. "Why?" she asked.

He put his head in his hands. "I cannot explain it. It was just a thing to do. To make a point." God, it sounded terrible! "Everyone else somehow got out of the way. She just sat there and stared at it as it fell. It wasn't supposed to land _upon _her!" She said nothing and he burst out "It was merely supposed to frighten her so she would not return!"

"Erik," she said, unable to endure it any longer. "Dear, Erik, how many terrible, terrible things? Do you remind yourself of each of them daily? Do you torture yourself with your memories each time you wake? Why, it is no wonder you are so unhappy, remembering all this! Let us focus on what we can do now."

He stared at her. "There is _nothing_ we can do. I cannot bring back the dead!"

"It is true! Even your death will not bring them back. Yet you have allowed yourself to die a little each time!" It has long been said that it takes a person who has experienced something to recognize it in others, and it was for this reason that she understood. The difference was merely that she had allowed herself to die all at once.

It was true, he reflected. The name Living Corpse had been intended to refer only to his appearance when he was young, but it had become his identity over the years. He was the walking dead. He was alive, but he did not live. He might as well have been dead all along. "Then why did you stop me tonight? It would have put an end to it all at last."

"I didn't stop you, Erik." And this was true as well. She'd handed that vial right back to him.

"Then you think I should have."

"_I_ absolutely do not." She waited. "I don't think you do either." At last she dared to him "What really happened to Raoul's brother?"

He looked away. "Do not ask me about Comte Philippe."

She nodded. She didn't ask.

"It was terrible," he said suddenly. "It was like the chandelier. It was not supposed to go the way it did. By the time I realized who he was, it was too late. If I had known... If one considers it logically, he would have been my ally. He would have forbidden Raoul to marry Christine. He would have served my purposes well! Killing him was just plain stupid! But I..." He shook his head. "I was not thinking clearly at all."

Here he stopped and the expression of his eyes changed to something she had never seen in him before. Always he was sorrowful, always doleful, sometimes angry and sometimes afraid, but the fear that crept in now was not a rational fear of being harmed by those who did not understand or emotionally wounded by those he dared to trust. It was a wild fear; it was the look of a man who feels the last threads of sanity slipping away.

His voice became disconnected. "When... I remember... that night, it is as though... I am watching from afar... as though it was not I myself. I can see... myself with Christine... but it is not I. And after the bell rang... after the man was drowned... _I still heard him_.

"Oh, Erik!" There was nothing she could say. There is a terror in being sane and feeling the sanity slip away. There is a horror upon returning to one's self with the memory of those moments during which one was not at all one's self. There is nothing anyone can say.

His eyes darted around as though he were looking around the scene of the terrible crime at the moment. "I had no idea who he was," he said. "I knew nothing. Only that someone rang the bell and Christine had not yet made her decision. I remember being wet. This means I did it, does it not? A man is drowned, found in my lake, and I am soaking wet. It means I did it, must it not? I cannot even recall how it happened! One moment I was on the shore with the reed in my hand, and the next I was returning to the house all wet. Christine cried out in horror and I thought it was because she saw my face for... for... I suppose my mask had come off in the water? But she said it was because... Oh, God, I _bound_ her!" He was horrified for a moment remembering, then he literally flinched and drew away from Elizabeth, his horrified expression worsening as he pointed at her. "I bound you, too."

She nodded. It was true.

He looked at his hands. "It was not really I," he said softly. "I would like to believe it was not I."

She reflected. It felt like a century ago, and no, it really was not he as she knew him. Even in so doing, though, he had been gentle. She had all but forgotten it, remembering only the good things, forgetting even how obsessive he was, and how negative. She'd rather forgotten spending the first several weeks of the time she'd known him listening to him sob about his place in the world. Now he sat before her, penitent and horrified. "It wasn't you as I know you now," she tried to reassure him.

His voice was soft, his hand slowly descending to rest upon his knee. "And you came back." He looked confused. "Why?"

How could she explain it? It hadn't even made sense at the time. "I don't know, Erik," she said at last. "I know only that I am glad I did."

That look from box five was in her eyes again. Was it the same look from that night after Christine had come to the door? But she'd been blurry that night and he'd closed his eyes. Even so, that night, box five, both had been before he'd told her. Now she knew. If she would say so again now... "Why?" he asked her at last.

"Because if I had not, I never would have had the chance to know you."

His eyes clearly said, _Why would you want to know this?_

But there are no words to explain love of the most exquisite kind. Instead, she was suddenly seeking to comfort him with her hands. That was all it took and he was crying again. Damn it, always crying like this, he cursed himself silently. If it weren't for the hideous face, the deathlike hands and the monstrous deeds, there would still be the pathetic crying and shaking. No woman could want... this. Women wanted men who were strong and certain, did they not?

"I tried very hard not to let this happen, Erik," she told him. "I swore that I would never love anyone, ever again."

Then there was hope for her yet, perhaps.

"I tried to tell you once... You said once that no one could ever love you..."

His eyes were wide and he silently willed her not to say it. If she were to say it then... well, what then? It was like completing _Don Juan Triumphant_ at last. What was one to do next?

"I told you that maybe I did."

His heart pounded. _No, no, no_.

"You told me not to be foolish. You were right Erik. I was being quite foolish."

He felt relief and disappointment at once.

"You are right, Erik. I was so terribly foolish. The word 'love' should never have been in the same sentence as the word 'maybe.' That wasn't at all fair of me. I should have told you simply that I did. I mean do. Did then. And still do. And I... I rather think I always shall."

It was true then! He should have been elated. Instead, he drew away from her. He had to give her the chance first. After all, how many chances had he given Anton to realize what he was? And that was only a boy who played the lead in his opera. If what she said were true, she must be given every chance... _every_ chance... "I cannot believe that," he said at last, though his eyes revealed that _he did believe_.

"Why not? What have I done to make you think otherwise?"

He stood. He paced. "I cannot believe it," he began "for if I believed it and... it turned out to be a mistake... or if you changed your mind... when you left... I would... surely... _die_ of it."

She reached for him but he paced out of reach. "I cannot change my mind Erik," she said, rising. She felt a sudden desperation and wondered how long one could endure this feeling before it drove one to utter madness as it had Erik beneath the Opera with Christine. "I would never leave."

Suddenly angry, he faced her. "You have already left," he roared, and his voice was pained. "Just dumped the Opera on me and left without saying goodbye."

"That isn't fair, Erik! It was what you wanted. You told me so yourself. And you are the one who left without saying goodbye. At least I sent you a letter."

"Oh yes," he said sarcastically. "Gone to England. Goodbye forever. Oh yes. And I expect you to do great things."

"How is that bad? Great people do great things. And it was _not_ goodbye forever! How can you say so? I said I hoped to return someday! I said I would write!"

"_And you did not!_" His voice was a roar. She stared at him in wonder. How could any living being make a sound like that? But fascination aside, he was far too loud. They would be heard. Wilhelm was in the room next door. Wilhelm, who knew too much. Wilhelm, who had called Erik a freak.

"Hush, Erik! Say whatever you like, but say it softly. Do you want everyone on the floor to hear you?"

"You don't want him to hear you then? Don't want him to know I'm here? Relax, Elizabeth," he spat her name at her. "He has gone out in his anger. I heard him leave."

"How could you know—" and she stopped. He had been here all along. He had followed her home! He had... had... _listened?_ She tried to remember all she had said but could not. She could only remember Christine talking about trap doors and hidden doors; it suddenly occurred to her that Erik did not need them. How had he gotten into the carriage that day they had moved to the little house? "You've been here!" She wasn't upset in the least, only surprised, but he heard it differently.

"Oh yes, I've been here. I heard what you said, Elizabeth. That you only let me in because you feared I was dying. That you kept notes on me like a common patient. That I am no one at all, for _you were alone_."

"Erik, you can't think I meant that!"

"What am I to think? He does not own you, Elizabeth! You have no obligation to him! _Then why lie?_"

He was right and she was speechless. As soon as Wilhelm returned she would tell him everything. Or she would tell him nothing at all. After all, she owed him no explanation at all. Paris had been her holiday! No one had the right to question her about that. But now Erik was raving at her madly as well and she must quiet him at once. This was not the fifth cellar of the Opera. Had he forgotten how quiet he had insisted upon being previously, choosing sooner to die than to so much as cough? And here he stood in a simple black silk mask—had he forgotten that if someone heard him and came to see what this was all about they would find his appearance suspicious? Apparently, he had forgotten everything, for he was so very angry. She had not seen such anger since _the day she had met him._

He brought his black masked face close to hers and hissed at her, "So did you have a nice trip? A nice little holiday from this terrible monster? Or perhaps you just needed to see London on a random whim? Hmm? Which was it? Perhaps there were not enough men in Paris for you? What, after the comte and the lawyer and the daroga, you needed something more?" Now he was saying things he did not mean, things he already knew were false, but it did not matter for he needed something to say. "You _did _leave. Just as _I always said you would_."

"I came back."

Her expression had changed entirely. Yes. Now she would be angry enough to change her mind. He turned from her.

"It was about my son Erik," she said tersely.

He should stop, he knew instinctively from her tone of voice. It was time to stop. _Now._ And yet he couldn't. After all, he believed her and if he believed her... if put his arms around her and admitted he loved her too... she might draw away and laugh; it might be only a cruel trick.

"Oh your son, it was, was it? Your son? More lies for the Opera _freak_? You told me your son was dead, Elizabeth! Perhaps you should keep better track of the tales you tell. It is bound to ensnare you eventually. Did you think I wouldn't remember your little story about a deformed child that made you accept someone like me? Do you think I even _believed_ that little tale? Did you honestly think—"

And at last, he broke her. "Stop it!" she screamed, putting her hands over her ears and closing her eyes tightly. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! All right! I admit it. If I admit it will you stop? I do not have it all together, my mind is not entirely healthy, and I do not have all the answers and never will! I _am _losing my mind. No. No, it has been gone all these years. They should take me away again. They never should have let me out. There. There it is, Erik. That is why I have to treat Wilhelm decently. I have been free all these years due to him. Yes. My grip on sanity is tenuous at best. I admit it. Now will you _stop_ at last?"

He had already stopped. He stood and stared. The door was right behind him. He had done wrong. It was what Christine had done to him or worse. He should simply slip out and go away forever. But he felt nailed to the floor, suffering as he watched her cry.

"Yes, I'm obsessed with it, all right? How could I not be? And how could anyone else possibly understand it?" She whirled on him. "Lies, you say? Lies for an Opera freak? I'm not from England. I had never even been there until this last. And you dared to ask me if I have seen freak shows and I said I avoided them. That's not exactly true. I have _seen_ them, Erik. I've dragged myself through them! Likely I've seen more of them than _even you_ have! Oh yes! I have seen what you could only imagine! And do you know what I found? I found nothing! _Nothing!_ There are no answers! There are no reasons! There is no one else on earth like him and I shall never, ever know!" She threw herself down on the bed and sobbed a long time.

Then at last in a voice much softer: "There is no one else on earth like him," she said again "just as there is no one else on earth like you. And now I shall have lost you both."

His eyes were wide. These were uncharted waters. To tell a woman she could learn to love a monster and hope it was possible was one thing, but to have one insist she did was quite another. To send a woman away despite his own desires for her own benefit was one thing, but to have one wail in agony that she was losing him was—so different as to seem absurd. She had always seemed so certain of herself that he was sure any attention to him must be brought on by pity but now that was questionable. And only moments ago he had worried about his own tears, yet now it seemed that she needed _him_, perhaps even as much as he needed her.

He slid to sit beside her and she cried still harder. "Certainly not," he said carefully. "I do not believe you could ever lose me." He put an arm around her shoulders, forced himself to ignore his concerns about his hands, placed one on her shoulder. With the other he took both of her hands, pressed them together and held them tightly. "Why did you hide this away?"

Centuries passed and at last she looked up. Catching her breath she managed to answer his question with a question. "Why do you hide your face?"

"Ah," he said pulling her gently against him. _No one would understand._ "Hush now," he told her. "_I_ understand."

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** A little less action and a lot more talk, but these things needed to be said. Your thoughts?

PS: Again, if you're completely lost, send me a PM and I'll send back.


	106. Chapter 106: Hysterical

**Author's Note****:** Hey all! Have you noticed this GREAT new feature called Reader Traffic? OMG! It's SO great I can't even STAND it. Now I can see not just how many times the story is accessed but how many different actual PEOPLE access it AND WHAT COUNTIRES THEY ARE FROM. So, now that I know you are there, I want to do a little shout-out to all the 76 of you in Portugal, the 23 in Austria, the 19 in Canada, the 15 of you in Australia (how's the weather down there, BTW? It's winter, right?) the 5 of you in Sweden, the 5 of you in the UK, the 4 of you in Greece (I'm SO jealous!) the 4 of you in China, AND the 2 of you in Israel (Shabbat Shalom in advance in case I don't happen to be online on Friday). As to those 215 from the US and 1 from Brazil, even though I already knew you were here, hey there to you too. Wow. FFN is really adding the features, aren't they?

As to the chapter, all I can say is Whew! We needed a happy chapter after all that, didn't we?

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

After what might have been hours, she at last went to sleep. He would have gone home when she stopped crying, but she insisted he stay because of the rain. He would have slept on her floor, but she refused t allow it, reminding him of last time he'd been out in the rain. They laughed together at the simple convenience of the fact that Wilhelm had just happened to retrieve those silk pajamas from housekeeping and throw them onto the bed on the exact night Erik turned up to wear them, his own clothes completely soaked through. Once dry and warm he allowed himself to be persuaded to lie down upon the bed without turning the sheets down. At length as he lay there he found the strength to calmly ask her about the trip to England, and she told him of Wilhelm's letter, the picture of Joseph Merrick, the fact that she'd spent whatever leisure time she'd had over the past nearly decade and a few odd years searching for anyone with a similar appearance to that of Jacob in the hopes of learning what caused his strange features and whether they had been in any way related to his death. At last she even dug out the picture of Merrick and showed it to him. He stared a long time and at last impressed her by mumbling something about having complained more bitterly than he had right to do.

She murmured her assent. "It's almost impossible for him to go out. There's a courtyard just at the top of the steps. He doesn't leave the hospital grounds though. Even so, he seems to make the best of it. He reads a lot. Writes letters. Has quite a few visitors. Some famous friends. He's very social..."

"Oh really?" His eyes were narrowed and suspicious.

"Relax, I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. I just wish you could have met him," she said sleepily. "We could return. He loves to have visitors."

He laughed. "Even he might find me a bit peculiar," he told her, but he didn't say no.

She told him of Richard only so there could be no more terrible surprises. The experience had, in fact, she told him, only reassured her of how she felt about him. How miserable she had been first all those nights in Paris wondering why he left and why he put up those gates and built the walls, then again all those nights in London, so far away, wondering what he might be doing. At last he admitted he had found the letter from Wilhelm in the book by Freud and repeated his concerns about what he might have done to Wilhelm if it had been as he suspected. She seemed little affected by the fact that he had read her letter. Instead she giggled like a young girl at the idea of him sneaking around to read her Freud text. She shook him playfully by the shoulders. "You were reading Freud and didn't tell me?"

"I still think he's rather obsessed with things that make me question his own mind," he told her with a serious expression that she could not see through the black silk. She laughed again. How wonderful it was to make someone laugh!

She told him about England's walled gardens and how she visited them trying not to think of how he would have found them far more comfortable than the garden outside the little house. At the mention of the little house, he remembered to ask why she had claimed the Comte de Chagny owned it. When she replied quite seriously simply because it was true he seemed to find it dreadfully amusing.

She told him of _The Mikado_ at the Savoy and about plays at the Drury Lane. Suddenly they were both laughing ridiculously at things that were not amusing in the least and at last, when all tension had dissipated and there seemed little else left to tell, he told her of Christine's visit the day after he left and how he had learned that his hands reeked of death. Something strange had come over him by this point, for he found even this amusing as he held his arms out to her and asked, "What did she expect from the Living Corpse?"

"Stop it! Stop that at once! Don't say that," she insisted, pretending to be angry, but laughing between words. They were like two children who had stayed awake too long and let giddiness overtake them.

"Well, how would I know if they did?" he pressed her. "I haven't a nose; do you suppose she _forgot _that?"

She could scarcely breathe for laughing. "Stop, Erik, stop," she managed, in gasps.

"Forty some years!" he told her, feigning irritation. "You would think someone would tell me sooner." He folded his arms and tried to look indignant, but with the mask hanging over his face expression was impossible and by her reaction, it had come off rather silly.

"Don't joke that way," she tried to tell him, doubling over with laughter. "It isn't funny." When she composed herself she took his hands in hers. "They..." she told him, kissing one. "Absolutely..." she kissed the other. "Do. Not." She touched her lips to the tips of each of his fingers. Then their eyes met and he tugged his hands away.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence while each wondered exactly what the other was thinking, then he told her "This next is not funny." But they both began laughing again immediately. "Truly. It is not," he began again. She nodded at him, pressing her lips together and holding her breath. "I have told you there was a torture chamber in the house." She nodded again. He was right. Nothing involving a torture chamber could possibly be funny. "I—" but somehow, tonight it was. "I somehow locked myself in it," he told, chuckling the whole way through the statement. She should have been horrified, but she giggled like a little girl as she asked how. "No, wait," he told her. "That part is not funny. It was terrible. What is amusing is that I built it myself but could not find the way out. No, wait. Listen. Then that boy Anton—the one who plays Don Juan?—yes, he fell in—Oh, don't ask me how, he just did—he fell in and—would you believe he just opened the door and was about to walk right out?"

Months of tension fell away as they laughed until their sides hurt. At last, when there was truly nothing else left to say, they lay on their backs, far apart (for both still worried slightly about propriety) staring at the ceiling. Every few moments one or the other would chuckle or giggle or stifle a laugh with a hand, but eventually these moments became fewer and farther between.

At last, with no trace of amusement at all, he asked "Who was it that put the ring on your hand?"

She took it for another joke but as the smile broke across her face she happened to glance at him and, though the mask entirely concealed his face, it was obvious nonetheless that he was absolutely serious. "This ring?" she asked in amazement putting her hands together to touch it with her fingertips.

"The only ring on your hand. The ring you apparently do not take off even when you dress for bed."

She sat up and pulled it off, held it out to him. "Take a look at it, Erik."

"I'd rather not, actually."

"Erik, please! You'll... you'll recognize it, surely."

She had his attention now, even if he was not entirely pleased. He held out a palm to her and she placed it on his hand carefully. He inspected it under the lamp beside the bed and shrugged. "So?" he said, handing it back. It wasn't much to look at it. He wasn't impressed by it in the least.

"So you do not recognize it?"

He didn't answer but all the amusement of a few moments ago was gone. His eyes were luminous and large and seemed to shimmer with moisture behind the mask.

She sat up with a start and turned to him drawing her legs beneath her and leaning close to him. "Erik, this is from you." Then, when he began to protest, "Yes, yes, it is, Erik I—"

"I never managed to give you a ring Elizabeth," he said softly. "But if I had, it would have been far larger and far more brilliant than this." He sighed. "Just... tell me the truth."

"It is the truth, Erik. The diamonds. In the velvet bag."

"Which you did not even want. Did you look carefully at them, Elizabeth? Some of them were quite spectacular."

She was quiet a long time as she gazed at the ring and he gazed at her. "Yes I know," she said softly. "I chose the smallest one."

He sat up and took the ring from her again and looked at it sharply. She could tell, even through the black silk, that he was frowning deeply. He turned confused eyes from the ring to her. "Why?"

She took it back and slipped it back onto her hand. Why did she keep it, or why did she choose the smallest one? She answered both. "I kept it because I needed something tangible by which to remember you. I took the smallest because I wanted there to be something to return after the matter of the Opera had been settled. Dear man, you offered me _all your treasure_. What were you to do until the Opera turned a profit? Starve?"

It was Erik's turn to unsuccessfully attempt to suppress his laughter.

She folded her arms indignantly. "Why is that funny?"

He held up too fingers. When he composed himself he told her, "Two reasons."

She raised her eyebrows.

"The first you see before you. Diamonds or no, does it appear I eat anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Stop joking that way, Erik. It isn't amusing." But she did laugh, even if merely at the fact that he would at last joke with her after all this time.

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because..." she stopped to think, still laughing. "Because I am happy. I am happy to be here with you." She kissed him behind the mask by his ear and the familiar feel of it assured him at last that she had done that at least once before. "What's the other reason?" she asked falling back onto her pillow and rearranging the sheet and blankets over her. He remained atop the blanket, though a few pieces of fabric hardly seemed sufficient to avoid the temptation that he feared.

"What other reason?"

"The other reason my choosing the smallest diamond is amusing?"

"That," he replied, "I shall have to show you tomorrow unless you wish to return to the Opera at this hour. And in the rain, which, by the sound of it, has gotten rather worse."

"Tomorrow then," she said sleepily.

"Yes... tomorrow."

He extinguished the lamp beside the bed and lay down again. She was under the sheet and he atop it.

She folded back one of the blankets to cover him and heard him sigh as he moved away slightly. Would he ever allow her to get as close as she wanted to be? she wondered, but it was close enough for tonight. It was, she reflected, far more than she had hoped for. He'd laughed. She hadn't heard him laugh before—not a real laugh, anyway, just a dry sarcastic painful sound that might as well have been a sob. She could scarcely see him now. He was a mere silhouette, a shadow that peeled from its face the shadow of a mask and dropped it on the bedside table. She moved closer. "Thank you," she murmured finding his lips in the dark and kissing him tenderly. She put her head upon his shoulder.

He remained beside her all night long but found he could not sleep. She clung to him in her sleep and pressed herself against him through the thin sheets. His nerves pulsed, his senses overloaded. It was years and years—a lifetime of no contact at all, followed by a kiss from Christine that nearly destroyed him. Once he awoke from what was supposed to be eternal sleep, he'd been embraced and touched and had his hand grasped with enthusiasm and just when he dared to believe it might be possible, all hell broke loose and there was Christine and everything felt like infidelity and he'd made himself more remote until, sick and suffering, he could not bear it any longer, gave in to his weakness and in the only way he could, begged her to hold him. It was fine, then, for a long time until Christine brought his attention to his hands. If it weren't true, then all should be well again, but it wasn't.

It wasn't because at that moment in the Opera when Nadir's hands first pushed him and Elizabeth together, he suddenly knew it wasn't enough and that it would be necessary to have more and more until the unthinkable occurred, and that would be absolutely unforgivable. All his life _nothing at all_ had been plenty—because it had to be—and one single kiss a dream of the impossible, the impossible that Christine had made come true. He should have died then. It should have been the end at that moment, for what happened next had started a terrible cycle that could never be complete. Elizabeth had gazed on him mere moments before her arms were around him and that had begun it. Why she did it, how she managed it, whether she actually had learned to love him, none of it mattered for now there was this problem: Where did it end?

It wasn't his fault the first time_,_ he consoled himself. He really had very little recollection of the first few days in her hotel room that time. When he became aware of his surroundings he was moist with perspiration lying in a bed beside her, masked and in black silk pajamas he did not recognize. Thankfully he knew he'd been too weak to have done anything terrible, but the fact remained that _he was there_. Now here he was again. This time he was not ill and he could have walked away but did not. This time would be his fault. Yet her arms were around him and he could not possibly pull away without waking her, so he lay still and waited for morning, but his thoughts raged and the blood pounded in his veins bringing to his eyes visions that made act three of _Don Juan Triumphant_ look tame.

* * *

Shameless Begging: Happy yet? (Don't worry... we're not done yet.)


	107. Chapter 107: Dawn

**Erik Plushie Offer (real—not cyber plushies!):** A long time ago, joking around in a "shameless begging" comment, I said "Blood sweat and tears in exchange for reviews," and someone responded, "But I'd rather have an Erik plushie." I responded "If I HAD an Erik plushie, I wouldn't be parting with it." And THEN I got curious. I had seen little _Phantom of the Opera_ plushies before, but they were from the Andrew Lloyd Webber version. He's got a wild shock of black hair, a black suit with a black (but red-lined) cape and a white mask that covers... well... more of his face than was actually covered in the musical, but oh well. Sadly, the mask is SEWN onto his dear little face so you can't tear it off and scream, (or go "Awwww...") which I think is incredibly un-fun. That having been said, on the day in question, I set out to see if I could find a REAL Erik plushie. Not a "Phantom-of-the-Opera-with-no-given-name plushie", but a TRUE Erik-from-Leroux-plushie in all his hideous adorable-ness. And guess what? Nope. Couldn't find one ANYWHERE. It's not that they are just out of stock or no longer being produced like the ones from the musical. No... they've never existed as far as I can tell... This made me quite sad. And THEN it gave me the most wonderful idea... (I am certain you can guess what it is...)

Well, the factory needed a sketch to start with, but I am not an artist of that variety by any stretch of the imagination. Fortunately, G-d blessed me with a brother who IS. I spent a large portion of my childhood watching him draw. (Sadly, it never rubbed off.) So, I called him. My brother had never read Leroux. Reading is not his thing; he got the art, I got the literature. So I copied down all the places where Erik is described. I downloaded pictures by other artists. Many of them have made him believable and some have made him quite scary. It's rare you find him "cute" as in "won't-scare-children-too-much" cute. If he's to be a plushie, he's got to be at least a little cute, right? Of course, there IS one really stunning frame from the animated version where he's sort of looking over his shoulder with those huge yellow eyes... I took some art with me and took my dear brother out to dinner at Olive Garden. (You can imagine the strange looks we got as we spread all these pictures of these skull-like faces across the table and studied them while we waited for our soup, salad, and breadsticks to arrive!)

The end result? Well, someday not TOO far off, I hope, I expect to have a boatload of Leroux-Erik plushies available for not-very-expensive sale. I don't really expect to turn a profit, just get one more Leroux-based product out there. I don't have the sample back yet and I don't have a final price yet, so I apologize for the lack of details... My _goal _was to wait until I had them ready to go and offer them, but sadly, I will finish this story before they arrive and then I will have no way to contact most of you. So I thought I'd throw this out now before we get to the real and true total END of this story and before production actually starts on these things to see if there's any interest.

POTO Plushies that are already available (that's the one that looks like the Webber version except his mask is too big) come in 9", 15", and 19" varieties. There are two different manufacturers: Nanco produced a 15" and a 19" plushie. CVS sold a 9" version and a 15" version that was different from the 15" Nanco version. CVS Phantoms are sitting. Nanco Phantoms are standing. The 9" has an extra deformity--he has only four fingers! L-rd only knows how he manages to play the organ! Anyway...

Since all of you are probably Leroux fans or you wouldn't be here in the first place, I'd like to know 1) how many think something like this would be of interest? 2) is there a specific SIZE plushie that you think would be most appealing? 3) Assuming production costs are not astronomical, what do you think would be a fair price for the size you felt would be most appealing? (As far as I can tell, once can get the 9" Universal Studios phantom for 8.00 plus shipping and handling. A 15" Phantom is 15.00 plus shipping and handling. I couldn't find a 19" available anywhere, so I don't know what that would cost, but I'd bet right at about 20.00.

Whether the factory can get me these things at a price that is fair and reasonable will be a major deciding factor, so please consider PMing me with your thoughts. Also, if you've already SEEN a Leroux plushie somewhere, please TELL me so I don't duplicate someone else's efforts.

THANKS!!

* * *

**FIREARMS WARNING**: Just to be certain no one tries anything, please do not consider firing a firearm out the window of your home like Leroux, not even if loaded with only blanks, unless you are experienced in handling firearms. MadLizzy pointed out some concerns, such as that even blanks can be dangerous (even deadly) so please, please, please, no one try Leroux's little trick unless you are trained and experienced. I wouldn't want to be responsible for any injuries.

**Author's Note:** I am supposed to be studying, but a couple of requests came in and this was almost finished anyway, so here it is. I can't resist y'all, so here's another not-so-depressing chapter from me. In fact, it's almost 100 percent fluff. Even so, they deserve it, and I find myself going "Hey, this happy stuff doesn't hurt to write... it's not so bad after all!" Of course, nothing can be _all_ happy, but... dear Erik deserves a short reprieve, doesn't he?

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

In the morning when she woke she talked of breakfast, but as he watched her brushing her hair he thought perhaps it best to get away. He managed to find the words to very politely make excuses relating to the Opera and Nadir. She tried to embrace him but found he trembled in an entirely different way than before. She pointed out her predicament with the hotel and Wilhelm being in the very next room. She begged him to take her to the Opera with him, and though he absolutely thought it a very bad idea, he rather liked the way she seemed to need something from him at last, even if it was just shelter from the other man, and so at length he agreed.

The rain had stopped overnight and it was a mere three blocks to the Opera, but how to get there suddenly posed a problem. It was broad daylight again, and he had worn only the flimsy silk mask, for it hadn't mattered in the dark the night before. Now he sighed as he looked at it. Trapped again at the Hotel Royal, this time with Wilhelm in the next room and no delirium to distract him! He sighed.

She seemed to guess at what he was thinking. After all, wasn't it obvious? "Come, Erik," she said putting her arm in his as she had the night before. "Three blocks. We shan't encounter anyone. We can take a carriage if you wish. But no one is on the streets at this hour. Look!" She drew back the curtains and he drew away from the window. She laughed again. "The sunlight will do you good," she said at last and pulled him out the door. It was useless to resist. It was only three blocks. He needed to get back to the Opera anyway. He hadn't meant to stay away so long. He might be looked for. He would have to put the terrible rubber mask on again. His heart sank.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" She was looking _up_, obviously trying to distract him from looking _around_ at people who might be looking around at them.

"It is," he told her.

"I could walk like this with you forever," she suggested.

"That is a very long way," he managed. She laughed. "It might be too far for me today," he told her. "This is the only the second time. In daylight. In many years."

"Oh, Erik! Don't you miss the sun?"

Without answering her, he continued, "Last time... from the house... I made it only half way there. Though that time the distance was much greater."

"Half way? Then what did you do?" He told her. "That is why I could not find you!" and she told him of her frantic search that took her first to the Opera, then to both Christine and Nadir. They arrived and entered through the main doors.

Erik led her through hallways toward Nadir's office where Nadir leapt up at once. "Did anyone see you like that?" Nadir wanted to know immediately. "They know you in the other one, Erik! You can't just change them around like this!" Then he apologized profusely, greeted Elizabeth appropriately and closed the door.

It was a pity, really, Erik thought. He really couldn't bear the rubber mask, nor could he go about without it. It meant returning below and staying there. He sighed. "I won't be above tonight," he told Nadir. "And I am already much in your debt. I will... make arrangements... immediately. I do not know if Elizabeth plans to stay. Either way, I'll enter the box through the pillar tonight if at all."

Before Elizabeth knew what had happened he had disappeared into the floor and she could see only his glowing eyes peering up at her, seemingly waiting for her to follow. There didn't appear to be any steps, and it was very dark. In the end, she had to simply slip through and trust him to catch her. She thought she heard Nadir laughing above her as the space closed over her head. She held tightly to Erik for a moment before she let him release her to walk beside him.

She had never before traveled the passages without a lantern and she couldn't see a thing. Erik wrapped one arm around her waist and held both her hands with his other hand. She got the sensation that it pleased him to lead her, so she clung to him just a little more desperately. At length they were inside the house, entering through a room she had never been inside before. "How large is this place?" she asked him, but he merely made a non-committal sound and led her into the kitchen which was still littered with bottles. "What—Erik! My Lord, did you _drink_ all that absinthe?" He shrugged and she began gathering up the bottles immediately and trying to put the room to rights. He hovered over her, unsure what to do. She was his guest. Yet it was what she had done before—taken care of everything.

He lifted a bottle and replaced it. He stood awkwardly. At last he took the bottles from her and set them down again. "Let us go to the parlor," he suggested. She allowed him to lead her, noticing along the way that a number of things were missing, still more were damaged and the largest of the bookshelves was splintered and crooked. "Erik, what happened here?" she asked before she thought better of it. He sighed and waited until she was seated.

"I suppose you might as well know," he said with a heavy sigh sitting beside her, but at a distance.

"Not if you do not wish to tell me," she said moving closer.

"It is no matter now. It is from when you left." He waited a moment and when she did not react he told her the rest. "At the gate you said it had been misery far worse than you imagined. You said goodbye. Then you left with Nadir. He had his arm around you. It... looked like..." He trailed off. He would not say aloud what it looked like. He had already said it last night and regretted it.

"So you _destroyed the bookshelf_?"

"No, I vowed to go after you and confront him. Then I realized it was daylight." He looked at her. "T_hen_ I _damaged_ the bookshelf. It is not _destroyed_ exactly."

She frowned at him. "This is like the morning I went above to make arrangements at the hotel and you woke while I was gone. Erik you must stop leaping to wild conclusions."

He looked at her a moment, trying to gauge whether she was upset with him. "You were very angry that day."

"Not so very angry, my friend," she told him. "I only wished to make a point. I thought I _had,_ but now I am not so sure. You've done it again—several times. You just left! You could have asked me about Wilhelm! Then with the walls... and if you heard me at the gate, Erik... You could have come to me! I meant that it was a great misery _to lose you_."

His eyes were wide. It made sense the way she explained it now, but it was more than he had been ready to hope for that day. That was after Christine. It was after everything.

"It was goodbye because _you_ walled me out. And Nadir... simply took pity on me. I was could scarcely walk." Her eyes stared off, remembering her sorrow. He sat silently and tried to understand.

He was still contemplating when she stood and crossed the room to inspect the bookshelf further. She returned holding two small items that Nadir had moved out of the Louis-Philippe room after finding Erik in the torture chamber. One was a perfectly sculpted likeness of a large grasshopper, the other a flawless rendition of a scorpion. The tail of the scorpion was chipped from when Erik cleared the mantle piece in frustration searching for an appropriate gift for her. One of the grasshopper's antennae was broken.

Elizabeth had never before seen them, but she had heard of them from Christine, and she knew what they signified. She had been about to comment further on the situation involving the bookshelf, but having encountered these, she chose to remark upon them instead. "Oh, Erik! These are exquisite! Pity they're damaged," she said carefully approaching him with the tiny sculptures on her hands. "Can you repair them?"

The grasshopper and the scorpion from the Louis-Philippe room! Nadir had moved all the broken items, and apparently these were among them. Erik lifted a hand and placed it over hers and the two figures. "You don't want to know about these," he said softly. "They are from before."

"All the same," she said. "They are exquisite." She paused. She looked at the black silk that covered his face and wished she could see his expression. Then she abandoned caution and, sitting beside him once again, placed the grasshopper on the table but retained the scorpion in her hand. "_This_ one especially," she said, cupping her hands around it as though she held a living creature. He leaned close to peer at it as though he had never seen it before. "It's so beautiful," she continued.

"You think so?" he asked. His voice was a whisper.

"They're both beautifully sculpted, but the grasshopper makes me think of Biblical plagues," she told him plainly, trying to look into his eyes. "The scorpion, however... it's..." She shook her head. It was more difficult than she had expected to convey aloud the thoughts that occurred to her the day Christine mentioned the two figures.

"You _like_ the scorpion, do you?"

"Yes."

He almost could not believe her. "A_ scorpion_?" he repeated nervously.

She laughed. "I wouldn't want to provoke a living one," she said seriously. "But unprovoked I think it's rather harmless. And _quite_ beautiful." She met his eyes.

God, he thought, if he didn't know better he would swear she was not talking about the figurine anymore! His eyes disappeared as he turned them away from her and took a shuddering breath. She placed a hand upon his back.

"If you _knew what I had done with them_," he began.

"Hush. I do. That night is over. And it changes nothing."

"Let me show you something," he said suddenly. He plucked the scorpion from her hand and dropped it carelessly to the table. He led her from the parlor, from the part of the house she knew, through passageways and stairwells, up and up, higher and higher until they emerged on the roof.

"Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, breathless from hurrying up the many flights of stairs. She noticed that he didn't seem to feel any exertion at all. He led her to the edge, and, holding her carefully around the waist with one arm, waved the other to indicate the city. "It's beautiful, Erik," she said, and he felt for a moment as though he were responsible for building all of it, not just the single piece on which they were standing. It was his, and she thought it was lovely. He sighed.

They spent the afternoon on the roof, for the light was soft and warm and though he had ignored her question on the street, he did indeed enjoy the sun. After a time she managed to persuade him to remove his mask, just for a short while, since they were entirely alone, but only after much discussion. He reminded her of her shock and horror at lunch, and she spent a great deal of time explaining her reaction from a number of angles. She had not seen him in so long, she said, and she had been taken aback to see he'd somehow injured himself. It looked as though he was in pain and she was upset that he had not told her he was hurt... At last he agreed, but insisted she remove it herself—so she could do so slowly or change her mind if it was too terrible, he said.

"There is nothing terrible about you," she said untying the laces to the shapeless silk. "Not a single terrible thing," she insisted kissing him first on the cheek, then on his pitiable mouth. She drew back and looked him over carefully, raising a hand to the abrasion on his forehead. "Does it hurt?"

He smiled sadly. "Not anymore," he said. "It's from the mask. The real one."

She looked at the piece of silk in her hand. The real one? They were all real _masks_, but he was clearly referring to the rubber one. A _realistic_ looking mask, yes... "All the masks are just masks," she told him. "This," she laid a hand on his cheek "is your real face."

"Don't remind me," he said, averting his eyes and reaching for the mask in her hand.

"Sunlight, Erik" she suggested. "It might help those sores to heal."

He glared at her. "You cannot expect me to me believe that," he said.

"No, I do not. But I'll try anything to get you to leave it off for a short time with me." He scoffed. "I have not seen you fully since the night we encountered Christine in the carriage. It was so very long ago." He made a face at her that suggested that was a good thing, but she frowned at it. "You forget, Erik. Now I know how _Don Juan Triumphant_ ends.

"It is an opera, Elizabeth. An exaggeration of life. Not reality."

"An exaggeration. Exactly. I don't expect to be suddenly bathed in heavenly light and ascend anywhere. But we are on your roof and the sun is shining. That is close enough for me."

"Don Juan experienced beauty in the end," he said crossly.

"And I get to look upon it now," she said seriously, staring at him.

He scoffed but allowed himself to smile a little. "You were right, perhaps," he said at last.

She was elated. "Just now?"

"No. Last night."

"Last night?"

"You said your grip on reality was tenuous at best. Even so, what you said a moment ago was very kind. I might like to hear it again sometime, nonsense though it is."

"Then I shall have to tell you again and again until you believe it."

"Silly woman," he told her, but he drew her close in front of him and as they stared out over the city, his silent tears fell upon her hair.

* * *

**Begging:** As always, I love the reviews. :-)


	108. Chapter 108: Decisions

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Another really bizarre excuse for an author's note****: **As the fine gentlemen of Monty Python once said, "And now for something completely different!" For those of you who enjoy something "completely different" every now and again I wanted to let you know that two of our lovely readers are working on an alternative story line that begins at the end of my chapter 104. When it's ready, I'll make sure to tell you where to find it and whose account it's posted on. In the meantime, here's another chapter from me!

Also: No life-sized Eriks! I know all of you were kidding, but when three people all joke the same way within an hour of each other, I have to worry. It IS an interesting thought, but I was thinking more like a little 12" to sit on your desk at work or on your shelf of Phantom collectibles. I admit a life-sized Erik would be fun—especially at Halloween parties—but it's just not going to be possible right now. Do you know how much _fabric_ that would take? And how much _stuffing_? Seriously. And the SHIPPING? It'd cost a fortune!

**Greetings from abroad****:** I can't get over the new reader traffic feature and am excited to have several readers from Turkey. Hi everyone from Turkey! (I have a letter from about 75 years ago that might be in Turkish. Is there anyone out there willing to tell me whether it is and if so to help me by translating it? Is there anyone out there from Romania?)

**Actual Author's Note:** I apologize for the long wait this time. The next installment you get might be Tuesday August 5, although if I get a chance before then, I'll post, but I can't totally commit.

* * *

It was only natural that they decided to watch _Don Juan Triumphant_ together that evening. Opening night had not been as it should have. She should have entered the box on his arm. They should have basked together in his glory. Sadly, their audience at the second production was far from ideal as well. It was a pity to have a lady on his arm and have to enter the box through the hollow pillar, but some things could not be helped. It was sadder still to have to worry about his proximity to the front of the box, but it was critical that no one see a lean figure all in black with a mask over his face. Why it was critical he wasn't completely certain. Had anyone ever accused the Opera Ghost of wearing a mask? No. He had a skull for a head or a head of fire, but not a mask. Christine, Anton, Nadir, they all knew anyway, so what could be the harm? And everyone would be looking at the stage, not up at box five. Even so, it was absolutely critical he was convinced. It wouldn't matter once it began, however. It was about the music, not about societal nonsense, being seen, socializing.

Sadly, things got worse when it began. It was only a moment after Christine stepped onto the stage that Erik began behaving strangely. "I have changed my mind," he told Elizabeth. "I won't be watching this evening. Feel free to stay, if you wish."

"Absolutely not! I'll go with you," she insisted, standing and smoothing her dress.

"If you wish. Do not expect me to be proper company, however," he said warningly as he opened a hole in the hollow pillar.

She was at his side in an instant. "Then I definitely am staying with you," she insisted.

He sighed. Of course. He couldn't have expected less of her.

It was true he was not proper company. He sat silently a long time. "It is my fault," and "She was still a child!" were the only words he uttered aloud all evening and he did not say them to her.

All evening he was lost in thought in the parlor and she stayed beside him, waiting. The coffee she brought him sat, neglected and cooling on the parlor table while he stared into space and she gazed at him, then the clock, then him again. At last she wrapped an arm about his shoulders and shook him gently. He startled slightly as if he'd forgotten she was there. Then he smiled weakly at her, a smile which he forgot she could not see, for he wore his mask.

"Despair is dangerous, Erik."

"It is not despair, Elizabeth," he said with a sigh. "You must not worry every time I am unhappy. You would spend your life in a panic."

"I might worry less if you talked more."

Even through the mask she could tell his eyebrows arced over the deep sockets. "Explain."

"If you talked to me about whatever upset you, I would not have to worry what it is. And if you wished not to talk about it, you might simply tell me the topic on your mind and that you prefer not to discuss it. At least then I would know it was not death you thought of."

He managed another weak smile. "It is about Christine. I am not so very distraught. I am merely thinking. And no, I do not wish to discuss it. Is that sufficient?"

She hugged him. "That was perfect," she said. She tried to smile. "I will try to worry less, but it was only two days ago with the Chlorodyne."

He sighed again. "You are right. I suppose you cannot trust me in that regard."

She drew back. "I will always trust you, Erik, but if you were to go through with that, you would destroy me. Perhaps you forget I have been through that before. I hope you don't truly doubt my past. You were merely angry with me that night. It is all true. It wasn't England, but it all happened.

Such responsibility! He would have to live, then, until death came naturally? He looked at her carefully. Could he promise that? What would she promise in return? Perhaps tomorrow...

At length he stood and walked to his room where he sat at the organ and simply stared at it. Elizabeth busied herself around the house, as she needed something to occupy her mind and it appeared that during the depths of his depression Erik had neglected not only himself but also his home. Perhaps tomorrow she would go for supplies and let everyone at the hospital know that it was her intention not to return. Then she would stop by the hotel to pay and collect her belongings. A final explanation to Wilhelm was in order, but how to manage it was less certain. She much preferred a letter over a visit, though the visit was the more proper thing to do. Perhaps she should ask Erik to write the letter. She laughed aloud at the thought.

Then the music began. It started sweet and innocent with child-like naivety and built to a strange crescendo of loss that called Jacob otherwise unbidden into his mother's mind. She stared at Erik's door and marveled at what he could accomplish through music without words. Perhaps she must listen more carefully.

* * *

When the opera above was over and his own personal concert complete as well, Erik showed Elizabeth to the door of the Louis-Philippe room, kissed her hand and turned to leave. He didn't get far, however, for she had declined to release his hand when he relaxed his grip on hers. He found himself pulled back.

"Erik, you don't still sleep in _that_, do you?"

He shrugged. "At times. Tonight it is rather necessary. This is _your_ room."

"I thought our arrangement at the hotel worked fine," she said looking down and away with a smile.

"That's a very nice thing to say," he whispered then disappeared before she could argue.

The coffin felt especially cold and hard that night, and he was especially lonely. Oh, what was he to do now? he berated himself. He _knew_ what he wanted, and it was right there for the taking, but oh, the guilt! Erik will not, he told himself. Tears fell yet again, as they did most every night, but he cried silently, lest she hear.

He was silent, but she strained her hearing in the night nevertheless, absolutely convinced that she heard something like sobbing. She paced the floor of her room and thrice looked into the hallway, but she would not enter his room uninvited tonight. At last, she was here with him again in his own home where he was comfortable enough to walk about without the mask. It was all that mattered. There was, after all, tomorrow.

* * *

In the morning there was no breakfast for Erik had, as usual, neglected to keep his kitchen well-stocked. Elizabeth could not persuade him to accompany her to the surface (indeed, she could not persuade him to climb out of the coffin and she was horrified to find that he had slept in his dress clothes from the day before!) but he did reluctantly allow her the use of the key. She at last managed to serve breakfast around the time one should have expected lunch. Erik was reluctant to approach the table and still more reluctant to dine.

"At least drink the coffee, Erik," she pressured him. "I made it especially for you."

He gave her a hard stare then reached for the cup with a sigh to placate her. Coffee, at least, had some flavor. He hoped she'd brewed it strong and was not disappointed. Still, it was uncomfortable at best drinking it with her watching him like that. It was bad enough drinking with such lips as he had; nerves made it worse. She averted her eyes like Nadir, and it occurred to him she had discovered one more of his secrets. He wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassment or relief, so he settled for both and made the coffee disappear as quickly as possible.

* * *

Hours later he still struggled with the decision. It seemed all he ever wanted was right before him and all he had to do was accept it, but he doubted himself. He asked himself if it was nobler to resist the temptation, if it were some trial he had to pass. At last he decided there would be no harm in knowing what her answer would be in advance, so he took her carefully by the left hand, his thumb grazing the tiny diamond she had chosen not to return of all those he had given her. "You have been wearing this ring _here_," he said, indicating her third finger with concern.

"Yes." Was he thinking what she hoped he might think? How much had he heard that night she'd argued with Wilhelm? She hadn't known Erik was on the other side of the wall. And she had forgotten his knowledge of German. She smiled. "I had it on the other hand for a while. But I was in England." She smiled at her own error. She had placed it on her right hand when she believed she would never see Erik again but quickly moved it to her left when Richard expressed concerns. It had been on her left ever since. It was no secret what it suggested, but she didn't mind the thought at all. She didn't want to move it back to the other hand.

"You are not in England now."

"That's true," she said.

The grasshopper still sat where she had carefully placed it on the table. The scorpion lay upside down as it had landed when he dropped it in his haste to take her to the roof. He sat beside her on the settee absentmindedly stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. Why did he look so sad? she wondered, peering at him carefully and trying to judge by his eyes and posture for he wore the mask again today.

"Oh, poor Elizabeth!" he said suddenly, and she frowned at him. What could he possibly mean? "Can it possibly be that you are thinking what it appears you are thinking?"

She moved closer. "Perhaps," she said softly. "How does it appear?"

"Oh," and his voice broke and he turned away. "Elizabeth!" It was a whisper.

"Erik." She turned him to her again.

"Why do you wear this here like that as you do, Elizabeth? Can it be that you are thinking thoughts of marriage?"

She sighed. At last! He was so elusive, so nervous, but at last he broached the subject! She trembled. And _smiled_.

"Can it be that you _wish_ to be married?"

She was breathless. "Oh, yes, Erik. Very much so." She tried to say it calmly but her joy bubbled over and gave her away. _Why did he look so very sad?_

He held her hand—the one with the diamond ring—and traced the patterns of the veins on the back of it with a bony finger. When he spoke he kept his eyes upon her hand intently. "Then you must go to your doctor friend and tell him that you are sorry, even if you are not just at present. Tell him you made a mistake, even though it was he who was clearly wrong. He desires you very much though you must somehow make it clear to him that marriage is not the same as ownership. He will certainly accept any excuse you give him. You did not lie to him. I _was_ ill when I was there. He must believe you. He can be—"

"Erik!" She had been shaking her head and waiting for the chance to speak since he said the word "doctor" but he would not look at her, would not acknowledge what she tried to say. At the sharp tone, however, he startled and pulled away, lifting his hands. "Erik," she said again, softly but urgently. She put an arm around him and pulled him nearer. "You mustn't flinch away like that. Surely you know I would never strike you! We have been over this before! You misunderstood terribly when you were ill! It was for—"

"No, no," he assured her. "It was not that. I understand that now and I—" it was so very hard to say—"I thank you for that. I... _appreciate _it. Without it, even had I lived, whose to say I would ever sing again?"

Her eyes filled with tears at this acknowledgment and she reached for him again as he continued explaining. "It is just something—something I do sometimes. It's not you," he told her, patting her hand. "Other people. Years ago. It's not you."

She tried to believe him. "As to Wilhelm," she continued, and she found herself swaying side to side, taking Erik with her, rocking gently. "I will not apologize to him. I will make no excuses for why you were with me. You were my guest because I wished you to be. It is a pity you were too ill for us to really enjoy our time together, but we have a chance again now. And I am sorry for that time. I feel to blame for it. I should not have let you remain on the floor like that. You should have been warm and dry in bed. But now let us talk about _now_ and about marriage! I will _never_ marry Wilhelm. He has done some nice things for me and perhaps I owe him much. But it isn't fair of him to expect that."

It was uncanny the way everything in life seemed to reflect everything else, Erik thought. He had given Christine much and used it to trap her with guilt into marriage. It hadn't worked for him either.

"I have been refusing him for nearly twenty years!" Elizabeth said of Wilhelm. "I said yes I wished to be married because I didn't realize you meant marriage in general! I thought you meant marriage _to you_! I am not particularly interested in the institution of marriage. If you did not exist, I wouldn't think of it at all. But as you do..." she moved closer and put her head upon his shoulder. "I would."

He sighed again. She would, indeed, make such a promise. He had long suspected it. It would be so simple to merely ask her. She would undoubtedly say yes. "Such pretty things you say to me always," he murmured. "You shall fill my head with kind words."

She smiled back at him. _So why _did_ he look so sad?_ "I tell you only the truth, Erik. It would make me the happiest of women!"

Another sigh. "The happiest of women!" he moaned, as though it were a curse. "I suppose next you'll say that you shall never be bored with me, that we should have such fun together."

She simply stared. "Why, of course I wouldn't and of course we should. Why do such things upset you? I mean it truly, Erik!" Then, suspecting she guessed the reason behind his grief, "Someone has told you kind things to be cruel, perhaps..." She stroked his hands and patted his shoulder and insisted, "I wouldn't lie to you. Surely you believe me. I mean every word of it truly." At last she simply said, "Just tell me what is wrong."

"I cannot make you happy," he sighed.

She was confused. "Of course you can. You already have." She moved against him. "And if you wish to make me happier still..." She looked at him. He was looking away.

Her eyes fell upon the table, and upon the scorpion, which still lay upon its back. She righted it and placed it beside the grasshopper. She studied them, then with one finger, pushed them closer to Erik. "You don't wish to speak about it," she said aloud. "You don't have to speak." She glanced at him. He was watching her intently. "I wouldn't have to say a word either, I suppose," she said aloud, looking at the table, pretending she did not notice how intently he was watching. "I could..." she trailed off and looked around the room. "I could just do this." With a touch she spun the scorpion. Unattached to the tap and outside its ebony casket, it whirled like a top. She put a hand upon it to stop it. "But that would be silly because I have already said yes aloud." She looked up from the sculptures to him. "It is you who must decide," she said.

He smiled bitterly at the irony. "It is not a fair question," he told her at last. "There is what I want..." he reached and hand toward the scorpion. "And there is what _is right_." He pointed at the grasshopper.

"I don't understand why there's a difference, Erik. It would bring us both happiness and would harm no one."

A happiness the will harm no one! He cringed at the familiarity of her words. "Perhaps we shall discuss this another time," he said softly.

* * *

**Begging:** Please be honest if this chapter is awkward. I have re-written it a million times and changed the order repeatedly, so I cannot tell if it flows or not at this point. Thanks in advance.


	109. Chapter 109: Turned

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Author's Note****:** Okay, I managed to write a _bit_ more and even though it's not Tuesday yet, I'm giving it to you anyway because, frankly, I'm bored and I kind of miss you guys. (Studying is NOT fun, apparently. Somehow, I had forgotten this!) Anyway, enjoy this little chapter. It's not too long, but... well... maybe you'll enjoy it some. I certainly hope so. Expect the next installment Tuesday. Unless my friend who is supposed to come over after my test tomorrow night chooses not to, in which case I'll be posting tomorrow, Monday, instead.

* * *

The following day they sat in the parlor of the house on the lake for much of the afternoon. Erik had decided he did not wish to see _Don Juan Triumphant_ again that evening, so there was nothing to anticipate and nothing to look forward to. Erik was deep in thought again, and Elizabeth found herself alternating between looking through the books on Erik's shelf and trying to straighten up the parlor.

Erik went above in the late morning for only a few moments taking with him an envelope into which Elizabeth had seen him place a large amount of money. "For Nadir," he had explained sheepishly, thankful that she did not press him as to whether he had been paying the man all along. He'd returned quickly. While he was gone she had spent the time working in the kitchen. By the time he returned, it was almost a place where one could prepare food again. The bottles still littered the table as though she had not known where to put them. He stood in the doorway and gazed at her. She seemed sad every time she looked at the bottles, which were now neatly arranged but still more or less everywhere. The wine bottles from the evening with Anton formed a neat row on the table. The numerous empty absinthe bottles lined the counter. He would dispose of them immediately if necessary, but why should they make her sad? It almost irritated him. But he took the chance to ask instead of leaping to a wild conclusion as she said.

"Why do they bother you?"

She sighed. It would be easiest to deny it, but it would not be true. Second easiest would be to tell the truth. Dr. Freud believes it to be a vice. Dr. Treves says it is a poison. I find it simply ridiculous for you are wonderful as you are. Even if you weren't, one can never improve upon oneself by reducing one's ability to _be_ oneself. I say this is the only body you have; treat it well. And why should you alter your personality when I so love you the way you have always been? Even so, it sounded Puritanical and judgmental. She was certainly not opposed to drinking, but absinthe? And in this quantity? She said nothing while she debated what to say. He was growing impatient. "I only worry," she said at last.

"They were gifts," he said. "It seems everyone in the cast sent one. Can you even begin to imagine? _Gifts!_" His eyes glowed.

"We should save them, then," she said softly, "But not all over the kitchen like this."

"No, no, it isn't necessary to save them. They were... It was a trick of Anton's, really, to get the cast to send these things. It was... to treat the infection from the mask. The other gifts are... put away. I shall show you later. These..."

She was smiling with relief. "Then you didn't drink them all!"

He rolled his eyes behind the mask. "I did, actually. It burned too badly, so I drank it instead."

"Oh, Erik!"

"Under the right circumstances, I'd far prefer a _single_ glass of wine to what happened one night with Anton. _Many_ strange things happened while you were away, and perhaps someday there shall be time enough to tell you all of them. At the moment, however, I need to go above to tend to a few matters." Her eyes lit up and he was sorry to admit he had to go alone. "But I shall return soon enough," he said quickly so as not to worry her. "I shan't be gone long at all."

"I have matters to attend to above as well," she told him softly.

He took her by the elbow and attempted to kiss her on the cheek through his mask. "Borrow Nadir's key." He hesitated. "If you... if you stay... I shall have another made." His voice trembled slightly and she wondered what the expression on his face was. "Meantime, I'll show you the way to return to the office. Just be sure to keep the gate locked. We don't want any unpleasant surprises." He shuddered. Christine and Anton were certain he had left town and he did not wish to be accused of deceit. He also didn't want to speak with either of them so soon after what he was certain had occurred opening night.

Elizabeth allowed herself to be shown to Nadir's office and took the opportunity of being above on the inside to wander about as she looked for Nadir, who happened not to be in the office at the moment Erik delivered her through the floor. When she found him, she took advantage of the fact that Erik was away to ask Nadir to tell her what had occurred in her absence. Sadly, though, there was little he could tell.

"It was terrible when I found him, for he had somehow become locked in the torture chamber," Nadir managed, shuddering at the memory. "He was locked away for a long time before that. I had to make a camp at the gate and wait for him to come out. Contrary to what you and I expected, he seemed devastated at the Opera documents."

"Yes, he... suggested to me that I had dumped too much responsibility on him and left."

"Too much responsibility," Nadir said irritably. "Erik will find a way to complain about anything," he said. "Suffice to say, he was already unhappy when I arrived. He did not say what occurred before that time, but one morning he arrived in higher spirits and announced we would perform something he had written himself. It was not too long later that he became irritable and then..." Nadir struggled for the word. "And then absolutely without hope. He spoke of ill health and perhaps it is true. He rather damaged Monsieur Kuznetsov's face with those many masks; I imagine he did the same to himself. He rapidly declined until suddenly the day before opening night he displayed such a sense of urgency. I did not understand it at the time, but now I see that he needed to disassemble the torture chamber before he could die to prevent anyone else from entering." He sighed. "He is quite different from the Erik I knew in my country who would perhaps not have been concerned with who fell into such a device. He is different even from the time here before he was said to have died." He paused in thought. "Here. Look," he said by way of example, pulling out the envelope Erik had delivered earlier that day. He spilled its contents unceremoniously on the desk before him: nearly one hundred thousand francs.

"Oh my," was all she could manage. Where had he gotten it? Had he sold off what wealth he had left? "He's feeling guilty," she said at last.

"What I am to do this these?" he said incredulously.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Save it. Spend it. Consider giving it to the poor. I sincerely doubt he'd take it back. You should have seen his haste to bring it you this morning."

They sighed and looked at one another. It seemed even when he was not overtly dangerous Erik was going to require much watching-over. "Are you going to stay this time?" Nadir asked her at last. There was meaning behind his words that he would not speak aloud.

"It is my absolute intention to stay. I left once before and made myself rather unhappy. I will stay. If he will allow it."

"You may have to insist. He's not one to admit he enjoys one's company."

That was for certain. How irritably he had acted when she'd first arrived the first time, and yet, how disturbed he'd been when she'd left. She sighed. "What am I to do with him? I can scarcely get him to eat, Nadir."

He shook his head. "Somehow, he subsists on next to nothing, doesn't he? Would you believe, though, the first he thing he told me when I dragged him from the torture chamber—the very first thing he said other than to ask whether he was dead—was to complain that he was hungry?"

She threw up her hands. "You jest!" she said.

"No, no," he said shaking his head and laughing.

"Absurd. I was beginning to think his... condition... affected his appetite!"

Nadir shrugged. "Perhaps his sense of taste? Or maybe he is merely exceptionally finicky. I cannot say for certain, but you should see the list of things he desired that day. I must have walked a quarter of Paris trying to procure them and still managed less than half of it."

When Elizabeth at last left Nadir, she had with her a rather strange list of delicacies that she planned to do her best to procure over the course of the next few days. In the meantime, she had to first retrieve her belongings from the hotel. She had spent such a length of time in the office that if Erik really did return as quickly as he said he intended, he would likely be back by now.

She hurriedly took her leave of Nadir and rushed to the hotel where she paid, checked out and had her belongings brought to the curb and placed in a carriage, which she then directed to leave her at the Opera on the Rue Scribe side. She readily acknowledged that it must look absolutely ridiculous to go to the Opera laden down with suitcases, but she had gotten past the point of being concerned with what anyone thought. It was not as though anyone would ask her about it or in any way act upon it.

By the time Elizabeth managed to make it back to the fifth cellar, no easy task in secret with pedestrian traffic on the streets and rehearsals taking place within, Erik had returned long prior. Music drifted throughout the house on the lake, though it was clearly not Erik's organ and was clearly not coming from the direction of his funerary room. Elizabeth entered through what would have been the front door if the home were an ordinary house above ground exhausted from lugging her valises through the passageways.

Erik was at the piano in the parlor. Elizabeth set her belongings down and stared a moment. It was so very peculiar. Always, _always_, he shut himself up in his room with the organ when he wished to immerse himself in music. Today he sat at the piano and plucked out simple folk tunes and lighthearted melodies rather than his own compositions and other complex works. He was also strangely unmasked without her having specifically requested he remove the accursed thing. Of course, he had been home alone. Perhaps he was always unmasked when he was alone. It was, after all, how she had discovered him that first day in the coffin.

The parlor was visible from the foyer so she stood and watched him play for a moment. Certainly he must have noticed her standing there. There was no doubt but that he had heard her come in—she had made quite a racket dragging a large suitcase through the door—but he didn't look over. There was no music on the piano; he played from memory, or perhaps was creating the lighthearted tune as he played. His eyes looked not at his hands, nor at the keys, but at a point above the piano on the wall—the point at which would have been most appropriate for a window if windows had been possible here. Strange that he didn't look over at her, but she chose not to disturb him; he was apparently lost in thought, and if the music was any indication, they were pleasing thoughts for a change. Having hauled the suitcase this far already, getting to the Louis-Philippe room was hardly a challenge. It was merely a few more steps by comparison.

She unpacked her clothing into what few drawers were empty. She was rather perplexed to find that the majority of the drawers were _not_ empty and she wondered about the items contained in them but did not inspect them yet. There was no need to make a search when it would be just as easy and far more polite to simply ask.

Erik was still playing when she finished. It was odd that he hadn't seemed to notice her at all, but as the music sounded almost joyful, she didn't dare question it. Instead, she made tea. Perhaps he would join her when he finished. Perhaps she could persuade him to actually _drink_ the tea. Perhaps tomorrow they would have a suitable meal together from one of Nadir's suggestions. As she moved about the kitchen she felt inclined to hum along with Erik's playing but didn't. She wasn't an opera singer. She wasn't any type of singer at all, and she rather preferred not to embarrass herself, though she was certain he wouldn't say anything unkind. She was singing within her mind, however, and when she walked back to the parlor with a tray, her feet moved to the rhythm of his tune. Then they stopped suddenly as she froze in place staring at the table where she had intended to place the tray.

There upon the table were the two figurines that had been the subject of so much grief since Erik had first elected to remove them from their ebony caskets all those months ago. They had remained on the table since the evening Erik had dared to hesitantly broach the subject of marriage and then insist it was not possible. There they had waited, one beside the other, mere inches apart and both facing the sofa. Until today. Elizabeth sunk to the sofa with the tray upon her lap and examined them carefully. The grasshopper was untouched, its enormous eyes vacantly staring up at her, its delicate and slightly damaged antennae seemingly quivering in the charged air of the room, its wings neatly folded across its back. Its partner, however, had its back—or rather, its tail—turned towards her, arching up over its back as though perpetually ready to strike in its own defense. The scorpion was not facing the couch but was instead gazing toward Erik at the piano. Someone had _turned_ the scorpion.

* * *

**Begging:** Comments, please!


	110. Chapter 110: Conditions

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Author's Note(s)****:** To all those who have ever left even a single review, I thank you, because each and ever review left is one that helped me to reach 1000. Much like perhaps Erik considering marriage, when I started this I never even believed such a thing were possible, but as we drew nearer, I realized it was... well... a dream that might be realized. How wonderful, then that Erik's dreams and mine are coming true at the same moment here on FFN. So again, I thank you.

Additionally, to all those well-wishers who send me thoughts and prayers while I was taking my test, I appreciate it. I DID pass, with a 116 out of 160 where 93 was required to pass. (Who comes UP with these standards? I get a 72 percent and that's GOOD? We need only 58 percent to pass? What is THAT? But I'm not complaining. I don't care. I'm submitting my paperwork for licensure immediately.

I'd also like to mention that although I finished the test in one half the allotted time, POTO threatened to destroy me when I reached the question that said "According to Abraham Maslow all of the following are true except... and then listed four statements one of which was "The simplest way to prevent a person from becoming self-actualized is to ensure that he remains hungry, lonely, and unloved." I near burst into tears in the middle of the test. Poor Erik!

Oh yes. ALSO I got home from passing my test (after listening to Master of the House from Les Miserables at a VERY high volume all the way home) to find that my Universal Pictures version of Erik was waiting for me on my front porch. I took him out of the packing peanuts and kissed him immediately, then combed his hair down neatly. He likes the top of my jewelry armoire far better than cramped cardboard box. Ironically, he's now amidst a collection of masks, none of which are from POTO. I'm sure he's quite confused.

* * *

Elizabeth set the tray down beside the two figures, stood again, and waited in silence. The water in the teapot grew cold as she stood, unwilling to interrupt his playing, not daring to sit down lest she miss what might come next. She waited. And at last, an eternity later, he reached something like an end to his song. She held her breath. The final notes lingered in the air. He seemed to move in slow motion, gently covering the keys to the piano, softly running a hand across its surface, turning ever so slightly on the bench, rising as though it were a superhuman effort to straighten himself, pivoting slowly to face her, then lifting his eyes to hers—and this was the slowest part of the process. He drew it out forever, but at last, their eyes met.

She felt she couldn't move. She was absolutely stunned. She left room in her mind for the possibility that it was a mistake, that somehow the table had been bumped or jostled, that he had merely lifted the item to inspect the damage that had occurred to it and replaced it facing the other way as an oversight. Yet she was, at the same instant, reasonably certain that Erik was not capable of such an oversight. She waited. Her mind screamed that she must do something soon before he misjudged her silence for refusal, but she simply could not think of a single thing to do. Fifteen years of loneliness were over at last. Fifteen years of self-imposed celibacy and isolation were at last finally finished. She inhaled slowly. Life was about to become very, very different, for she had suddenly remembered that he was not only Erik who sobbed his life on her shoulder and Erik who startled and pulled away from her. He was _Erik_—who had composed _Don Juan Triumphant_. Life was about to become _very_ interesting, unless it was all a terrible mistake.

She dared to look at his face. The wounds he'd inadvertently inflicted upon himself in an effort to be like everyone else were nearly healed at last and would leave visible but minor scars. His eyes were wide and shining. His expression showed him to be hesitant, timorous, perhaps still more apprehensive than she was. Then he _must_ have turned the scorpion on purpose. Had it been a mere accident, he would by now surely have asked why she was staring at him so. At last, he crossed the room taking slow careful steps. When he reached her, he stood for a moment seemingly in awe of her, and she had the sensation of observing some great and ancient religious rite. The levity of his countenance nearly frightened her, but he took her hands _so_ gently. Her eyes widened as he fell to his knees before her. Yes, it was customary, but it took her aback.

He squeezed her soft warm hands in his, still cold and bony no matter what she said, but she did not draw away. She was so warm and soft and alive before him that he desperately wished to reach out and wrap both arms about her and hold on as though she were life itself, but he focused on her hands—and on that small ring which he would be replacing very soon. He couldn't look up. "Elizabeth," he said, and he choked on her name. "Would you... consent... to be... Erik's wife?"

She bent to him slightly. She looked about to cry and for a moment he was certain that he should not have asked at all. "One condition, Erik," she whispered.

Yes. She was already crying, silently, for her cheeks were moist. Conditions! Of course there were conditions. He had expected that. He had conditions of his own as well... but she mustn't say no. No, he could not bear "no" today. His voice shook. "Anything," he whispered, trembling, tightening his grip on her hands.

She was pulling slightly, not pulling away but pulling _him_ upward. "Off your knees," she whispered urgently. "Off your knees and ask me again."

He stared at her in wonder. _That_ was her condition? Her only...

He was on his feet in an instant, looking down at her though wet eyes. "Will... you..." It was all he could manage, but it was enough.

It came out like a sudden sob: "Yes!" And she pulled her hands loose from his and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly and shaking with sobs. At last he eased his arms around her as well. They stood that way an untold amount of time, each absolutely at peace for the moment, holding the world and absolutely terrified to let go.

* * *

"I composed a wedding mass once," he said quietly. They were in the parlor yet, sitting absurdly close considering the size of the sofa. The water in the teapot had been heated again and Erik, unmasked as he was, had somewhat less reluctantly than usual accepted the teacup she offered. Today, he would accept anything, no matter how awkward or embarrassing it might be. He was even _drinking_ the tea. After all, after today, what would he do? Eat and drink only in secret? Simply starve? She'd agreed to this with only that one strange condition. She'd accepted all of him, even the ugly parts, the terrible things and the awkward bits. It was hard to believe, but it was definitely so.

"Did you?" She beamed at him. It seemed he could have said anything—something utterly demented like "I was responsible for the Black Death"—and she would have glowed with joy. So this is what it was to be loved! He had been a fool all that time to think he'd had the slightest idea before, and yet, those feelings were real as well, just absolutely different. It was curious and he would spend more time pondering it later, when he could think clearly again, when his mind was not so muddled with the idea that the world was a wild enough place that someone actually wanted to spend every waking moment—and apparently the non-waking ones as well as the ones that lay _between_ the two, and which greatly concerned him—with him!

He closed his eyes a moment. "It is magnificent," he said at last. "But it was written before I met you."

She leaned against him. "It doesn't matter to me," she said. "You were still _you_."

He considered this. It was, again, a very nice thing to say. He put his chin upon her shoulder. "Would you care to hear it sometime?"

"I should rather prefer to hear it sooner than later," she said with a sly smile. He smiled as well and looked away like a shy youth. "When is this glorious event to take place? Or has it already?" It seemed to her that the words that made up marriage vows were rather useless. They had already been through all of it and more. It occurred to her that with all the contrasting situations vows offered, they did not say in ugliness and in beauty, for love has nothing at all to do with either, or perhaps love turns one into the other. She was just smiling at this thought, gazing at him, finding that she could not even remember finding him hideous or fearsome, and noticing features she found rather endearing when he sat forward and frowned at her.

"Whatever can you mean by that?" he asked her with obvious consternation. "You think Erik would not wish to provide you with a proper wedding?"

"Of course not, love," she said softly. "I only thought that you had asked and I had answered. Truly, that is what a wedding is. It shouldn't matter in front of whom we repeat those words."

Perhaps he should have been absolutely elated. It was, after all, the first time in his miserable life that anyone had ever called him "love." Instead, he was devastated. "It should not be _real_ but it be done properly," he said in soft horror. Then, drawing away from her, he placed the teacup on the table and folded his arms protectively about himself. "Elizabeth does not wish to truly marry Erik!" His jaw quivered.

Her cup and saucer clattered to the table as she hurriedly freed her hands of all obstructions and embraced him again. "Elizabeth will marry Erik whenever and wherever he wishes. Elizabeth will marry Erik a thousand times over. Elizabeth will marry Erik _however_ he wishes." She clutched his hands in hers. "Elizabeth shall have _no joy without Erik_."

He brushed a hand across her cheek. "Elizabeth believes she means this," he said softly. "Such kind words..." He put his arms around her and drew her so close she was nearly upon him. "Ah, such kind words," he whispered again.

"True words," she whispered back. He sighed into her hair. "So when, Erik? When? I am ready now."

He drew her away and looked at her again, this time with amusement. "Elizabeth is as impatient as a child! She must wait until the church is available."

She blinked at him. Church? What church? It made sense, of course. Most weddings took place in churches, but Erik had been so reclusive she had simply believed it impossible. She remembered Christine's description of the game with the scorpion and the grasshopper and thought it was some bizarre ceremony. It didn't matter to her in the least where she was married, so she would not have complained. Now she looked at him in surprise.

"I thought perhaps the Church of the Madeleine," he told her at last. "It is nearby. A mere three blocks to the west. Unless it does not suit you." Here he became uncomfortable again. "The mass would sound quite magnificent in its sanctuary," he told her, "but perhaps it is not appropriate..."

She felt her flesh grow suddenly cold. "What could possibly be inappropriate about a church, Erik?"

He sighed. "Perhaps you forget that I have once before attempted to plan something like this," he said at last, fearing her reaction. It had been planned further in advance that time. He'd managed to arrange for a dual ceremony before the priest and the mayor for Christine. After all, when one fears one's bride will run away, it becomes more important to ensure the marriage is legal in all ways at once.

Oh. Oh, _that _was all. She breathed a sigh of relief. "I think I should find your choice of location to be quite satisfactory," she said settling back against him.

He wrapped his arms tightly about her, pressing his chest against her back, his face into her hair and still feeling he could not get close enough to her. His chest positively ached and he wondered if he should feel such wonderful agony eternally. How would he ever function normally again?

* * *

Champagne immediately followed tea because he wished it. She would not refuse him anything, and so when he stood at last and took her by the hand, pulling her down the hall with an impish grin, she followed unquestioningly. He led her into that room—the one with the canopy and the horrid coffin. She flinched. "Fortunately, very soon you shall never sleep in that again, yes?"

He blinked at her. "Why ever not?" he said with a frown.

"Why, we shall share the other room, shall we not? As husband and wife?"

He shrugged. "Does a wife not need occasional privacy?"

She smiled. "Maybe not. But if it makes Erik more comfortable to think so, perhaps we shall have another bed in here."

He was suddenly very serious. "Have you any idea how difficult it is to get a bed down here?"

"I have none," she said, "But I hear my Erik is a genius."

When he did not appear amused she said "Erik will share his wife's bed _every_ night then." She said it with another of those smiles that was making him so very uncomfortable. When was she suddenly so forward with him? Ah, yes... when he asked her to be his wife. Perhaps it was more than he could handle. Perhaps it had been a mistake. But she said she would have no joy without him! How could he change his mind now? No, he could not. There would simply have to be boundaries. Conditions. Provisos. He would outline them later.

In the meantime, he pushed the coffin on its dais askew and dropped to the floor. "We shall discuss where I shall sleep another time. First," he said, "see at last why it was folly to choose the smallest diamond." She stared in wonder as he opened a space in the floor and, with a gesture, invited her to look. He reached a hand inside and stirred the sparkling mass with a sound like glass marbles. He lifted a handful and let them fall from between his bony fingers a few at time. "I did promise you _all_ my treasure," he said finally, "but it would not fit in the bag. Forgive me. They shall all be yours soon enough, my dear... but let us choose one for your ring."

She fell to her knees beside him and reached forward to touch the shimmering mass. No wonder he had laughed so at the thought of her saving a few to send back to him! He had most certainly not sold off all he had to pay Nadir. "You choose one, Erik. I am happy enough with the small one, but if it pleases you, choose another. As for me, if they were all to turn to dust, I would be happy so long as I still had you." She seized him by the lapels of his coat and kissed him as she had never kissed him before—in a way that even Marcelle had not dared—and as he gently held her away he doubted with dread his ability to resist her.

* * *

He spent a long time digging through the store in the compartment in the floor before he found one suitable. When at last he showed it to her she eyes glowed, but then, they had been glowing already. He might have presented her with an ordinary stone from the street and she'd have been as pleased. He shook his head. He didn't understand her at all, but it didn't matter. He would have the stone set in a ring that he would design. His jeweler could surely arrange it before the church was available. There was the matter of her dress, naturally. And then... He had no idea what was to happen "and then." The wedding itself was the furthest his mind had ever gotten. The rest of him, sadly, hadn't gotten that far as his first and last attempt had gone so badly. This was infinitely easier, and yet, in many ways, it was also far more difficult.

"It will be a white dress?" he asked.

She blushed, then shrugged. "I imagine you prefer it?"

He frowned at her. "It _is_ a wedding," he said.

She sighed. He was, apparently, obsessed with the outward appearance of everything, despite his disdain for others who valued appearances. "And I, whether you wish to remember it or not, a widow." Still, it was understandable that a man unmarried so long—and not by his own choice at that—might have long fantasized about what his bride would wear, how she would look, what the ceremony would be like. "But if the church will not object I have no problem at all with wearing white," she added quickly. "Especially if it will please you."

She was in dark green at present. Even when she had given up black at last, she always wore dark colors. Indeed, what would she look like in white? He looked her over where she sat beside him on the floor of his room. The gown should be of the most exquisite white silk. He wasn't to see it before that morning, but he could certainly speak with the dressmaker about the fabric. White gloves... Perhaps a string of pearls... "And a long veil," he commented aloud. His voice fell to almost a whisper. "And _orange blossoms_..."

She said nothing in response to this. Either he was trying to ignore her status as a widow, or he simply didn't care. "Who shall be present Erik?" she asked him.

He immediately looked hurt. "Who does Elizabeth need to be present?"

Ah, then he intended it would be just to the two of them. There would be no one to say anything about the orange blossoms at her age. "Only Erik," she said softly.

He closed his eyes. "Forgive me," he said at last, leaning back against the wall. He was obsessing over the little details and he knew it but he couldn't resist. He would have a bride at last, and one that he did not have to watch so carefully lest she disappear before he could manage to wed her. Soon... at last...

And that reminded him. "We should discuss the conditions of the marriage in advance, should we not?"

Usually so strong, so opinionated, she merely smiled at him now, assenting to everything he said, and so he continued. "This will not be a marriage like those that everyone else has, you realize," he said quietly.

* * *

**Begging****:** Please?


	111. Chapter 111: 'That'

**Author's Note****:** Sorry there was no Tuesday installment. I put the Tuesday one up on Monday and then it took a long time to type all this. Tomorrow is my first day back to work, so I don't know if there will be an update tomorrow or not. Friday I've got some stuff going on with the kids... so we might be back down to 2 or 3 updates a week. Still, it's my obsession as well, so I'll update as often as possible. I'm happier in real life when the story is progressing here.

**Oh yes... and I must warn you... if you have been focusing solely on what is going on between Erik and Elizabeth, you may find yourself going "huh" at the end of this chapter. If that happens, feel free to look back at the conversation between Christine and Anton in chapter 92, the conversation between Erik and Anton in chapter 95 and the first conversation between Nadir and Anton in chapter 99.**

**A quick personal note to Ash****:** Which plushie do you want a picture of? The one I purchased or the one I hope to eventually sell? The one I hope to sell is still in the design stages, so that's not possible yet. If you mean the one I bought, though, I can probably arrange that... You can also find him online. He's a Universal Studios... Um... collection...? Phantom. (I continue to refuse to call him a "Universal Monster" as it says on his tag. He is most definitely NOT a monster. He is cute and cuddly and keeps me company all day while my family is away. There is nothing monstrous about THAT.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

She smiled. "I imagine that no two are alike," she told him "and ours will be the most wonderful of all."

He turned slightly away and looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, one eyebrow arching upward, the other twisting into an absurd frown. It seemed marriage proposals did strange things to women. Christine had been something like a friend: willing to come and visit often, until he spoke of marriage; then she did nothing but cry and scream. Elizabeth had been calm, mature, rationale, even analytical. She was logical almost to a fault; there were times her logic frustrated him. Now, she was suddenly girlish and _ridiculous_. He rubbed his bony brow with his fingertips. This was not as he'd expected it. He sighed. At this she adopted a pained expression of sympathy and reached for him yet again.

"Stop!" he told her, holding a palm out in her direction. "It will not be a marriage like those everyone else has. We should _discuss the conditions_."

"I don't _have_ any conditions, Erik. I agreed to be your wife. You get everything that comes with that. It's what marriage is, is it not?"

"I would not ask you _for all that_."

She sat back and frowned. "So what _do_ you want?"

He sighed again. He shifted uncomfortably. The floor of his room was not the place to have this conversation, but it was too late. He looked away from her. "It is not what I _want_ but rather what I am willing to _forego_," he said at last.

She frowned deeply but he did not see for he did not look. He heard the rustling of her skirts as she moved from her knees to her usual posture of sitting with her feet tucked beneath her. This really was the wrong place to broach the subject. He put his head back against the wall with enough force to rebuke himself for being so stupid.

"There are things other men expect of their wives that I will never ask of you."

She looked at him. That could mean nearly anything in the world. There were men who expected all sorts of things. There were men who believed marriage was like ownership, but he could not possibly believe she would suspect that. No. It had to be his insecurities again. She sighed. Had she not done enough to reassure him? Were her feelings not obvious enough? She forced herself to remain calm, but her voice was terse and she could not refrain from rolling her eyes as she said, "What will you never ask, Erik?"

He glared at her. Wasn't it obvious? Did he have to explain everything to her? She was not a child like Christine. Surely _she _was not so foolish. Surely she understood exactly what marriage meant. Yet when he stole a glance at her, she was staring at him with a vacant look that said she did not understand at all.

"Elizabeth..." He swallowed hard. Somehow she did not seem to notice how difficult it was for him to say. "There are... things... that are _shared_... within a marriage. Things that... we... cannot share."

She heaved another sigh and he detected a note of disgust. "Oh, Erik, what can you possibly mean? We've shared _everything_ already! This home, a tiny hotel room, the house on the edge of the city! You've been near death twice—three times if you count the Chlorodyne—and we've both left once _and come back_. We've had countless misunderstandings, arguments, even. When I didn't know about this..."—she gestured at the open hole full of precious gems before her—"I assumed we would live off my inheritance and _that was fine. _If we didn't have that, then the Opera, and if there wasn't that... we'd manage..." Her voice trailed off as she ran through the vows in her head. She had covered everything, had she not?

But Erik was glaring at her. He gritted his teeth. "Not... those things," he said with clenched jaw. His brow was furrowed into a glare and he had completely drawn into himself. With that expression on his face, Elizabeth could easily understand how people feared him. Endearing as she had found him only an hour earlier, she could scarcely bear the sight of him now. "Things I can _never _do." He spat the words out into the open air of the room without looking at her.

"What—" And she stopped. She had been about to ask what there could possibly be that she had not already said when it occurred to her what she had _not_ said aloud. Of course she had not said _that_ aloud. That was simply understood between a husband and a wife. She felt the blood drain away from her face as after recognition dread set in. _Things we cannot share_, he had said. _Things I can never do_. Oh, no. No, it couldn't be... "Oh." She had the sensation she was falling. She couldn't say more. She looked away. How incredibly stupid she'd been. He'd always kept her at a distance but she had easily attributed it to respect, modesty, propriety... Her mouth was dry and there was a taste like acid. The words _Poor Erik_, words she had determined never to utter or even think, suddenly sprang to mind. "Oh, I'm sorry..." she began.

He laughed bitterly and held up his hand when as he realized what she was thinking. "Stop. It is not _that_. It most certainly _is not that_. I wish it _were_. Life would have been _so much easier_." This last he uttered like an insult to her as though it were somehow her fault. She drew away, a wounded expression upon her face. "Oh, don't tell me you _expected_ it," he spewed. "Might have endured it for my sake, perhaps? How heartless do you think Erik is? You think Erik would _put his wife through that_?"

She stood. "I—I'm sorry Erik," she stammered. "Forgive me... I have... I have to get away from you right now." She turned and left not only the room but also the house on the lake. There was nowhere for her to go, having already moved her belongings to the Louis-Philippe room, so she retraced the path he had shown her earlier that morning. The further she traveled from him the angrier she became, though had she been suddenly asked to explain why, she could not have readily found the words. She emerged in Nadir's office harried and cross.

* * *

When the trap flipped open with a crash that could only be described as angry Nadir glanced over expecting Erik and was quite surprised.

"Ah, Madame," he began but was silenced by an angry look.

"I do not wish to discuss it Nadir," she said sharply. "Do not ask."

Yes, she was definitely Erik's lady, the Persian could not help but think. He smiled at this thought then hastily adopted a blank expression as she glared at him. "Is there something you find amusing?" she asked him, narrowing her eyes.

"No, Madame," he replied softly.

She took a deep breath and used a slightly kinder tone. "If you would permit me to remain here," she said, "I would appreciate it greatly. I simply cannot be—there—just at present."

"Of course," he replied. He had been about to leave anyway. He had much to do. Elizabeth restrained her feelings until Nadir closed the door behind him. Then she kicked his chair hard enough to turn it over and broke into noisy tears.

* * *

Down below Erik sat stunned against the wall. She was gone. Just like that, and for all the wrong reasons. He could understand her leaving if he'd insisted... but he had offered... Did she actually expect...? He put his head in his hands. A man such as Erik is not to marry, he thought. Not this late. Not after a lifetime of isolation. He could not be expected to know how to behave, what to do. He laughed—his old brittle laugh that could have as easily been a cough or a sob. Now she leaves over _that_. The irony, he thought.

Of course, she might not really be gone. It depended on what she meant. _I have to get away from you right now._ It might have meant she needed to be away for the moment and would return. Or _right now_ could refer only to the immediacy of her needing to leave. It could still be forever. It seemed that no matter what he tried it was always wrong as related to interacting with other people. It made him question his desire to have anything to do with _everyone else_.

Well, no matter. Alone or not, he was not going to sit any longer on the stone floor. He stood. As he walked past the mirror he noticed an empty vodka bottle beside it. He held the bottle by the neck and smashed it against the mirror. The bottle behaved exactly as he expected it to. It broke. The mirror behaved similarly. Inanimate objects, at least, were predictable.

He swept up the glass and disposed of it in case she returned. As he did so, he happened to notice the original score of _Don Juan Triumphant_ lying where it had landed when he had carelessly tossed it and his will back out of the coffin so that he might climb in two nights prior. He glared at it, glanced at his watch and considered. Anton would be here today. He might be rehearsing, or he might be in the dressing room. In either case, he would not be difficult to find. Erik briefly considered going to Anton barefaced but remembered Anton's lack horror at his appearance. He tied the black silk across his face and slunk out to confront the boy.

* * *

The door opened a crack and a single eye peered through the hole. A moment later the door opened fully and Nadir slipped through. "Beg your pardon," he said carefully. "I thought you might still be here."

Elizabeth gave him a fake smile.

"Have you eaten?"

In Erik's house? Did he think there was food there?

He surmised her answer from the disgusted roll of her eyes. "Lunch?" he suggested, offering her his elbow. She rose and accompanied him without a word. If it got her out of the Opera, she would go anywhere. "What has he done now?" Nadir asked her as soon as they were outside and safely far enough away that no one could hear them.

"It is nothing appropriate to speak of," she responded without looking at him.

He thought this over for a moment. At last he said, "I fear you have given him too much hope."

At this she nearly stopped walking as she looked up at him. She couldn't even find words for a response. Was there such a thing as _too much hope_?

"I realize he has never been less than kind in your presence, but you must know he kept Christine a prisoner. There are times I am certain he is mad. He has been far better of late, but I do not give up all my doubts. Loneliness does strange things to men. Couple that with all else he has been through and one cannot know what to expect from him. If he has threatened you, coerced you... if you fear him in any way—"

"Nadir!"

He stopped.

"You have it backwards."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She sighed. "Erik has proposed marriage," she said at last. She expected the Persian to smile, but instead he looked more worried still. "We are merely bickering over the details. I am angry with him. But do not worry."

It seemed everything she said to reassure him made him worry more. "You are a good woman," he said at last.

She drew her arm away, exasperated. "You, too? That is how _he_ is. This is why I am angry. I am tired of it being treated like a sacrifice." She stopped in the middle of the street and turned to look the dark-skinned man in the eyes. "I _want_ to marry him, Nadir. The only sacrifice is having to pretend it is a sacrifice all the time. Now he is obsessing about how this or that is enough for him and about orange blossoms in my hair. It is a natural argument two people might have, perhaps. I don't fear him. He just... irritates me right now."

There was no question about that in his mind. From her tone, irritation was an understatement of her feelings. Nadir resolved not to say another word about Erik throughout lunch, but it couldn't be helped. The two had nothing in common beyond Erik, so as soon as they were seated in a small cafe, conversation centered on him again.

"You must understand about Erik and women," Nadir explained. "He simply doesn't believe you." He did not bother to point out the trouble he had believing it himself. "A woman sees a man in a mask, you see. She wonders what lies beneath it, yes? It will be one of two things. It may be something terrible, or it may be that he is normal, even handsome and has some other reason to hide. It is curious, in a scandalous way. A woman's curiosity gets the best of her. But once she sees, she draws away. It is only natural."

"It may be, if she does not know the man," she insisted. "But once she does..."

"Ah, but most do not wait around to get to know him. And I have told you, he has acted terribly at times in the past. When Christine tore off his mask, he raged at her in a most ungentlemanly manner. It is no wonder she fled when she had the opportunity at last."

Elizabeth decided not to tell Nadir how Erik had raged at her. Instead she simply waited. He went on.

"I imagine most scream. Some faint. Some simply run away. But it is important to note that not all do. There are many women—like yourself—kind, compassionate, caring souls. Do not let him fool you into believing that everyone has screamed and run."

Elizabeth widened her eyes. Just when she had thought the irony could not get any thicker! All this time she had been alone until as last she met someone still lonelier than she... "Now you are going to tell me Erik has some romantic past?" It really was too much. She considered leaving—not just the cafe, but the city. Perhaps the country. Permanently this time.

"On the contrary. But you can imagine his confusion. A woman looks upon him with pity, he sees his only hope for love. A woman treats him with compassion, he thinks he will be getting married. Foolish, yes, but hopeful. Every time it has turned out very badly. Imagine the embarrassment of declaring your love only to find it unreturned." Elizabeth wasn't so sure she needed to use her imagination at all. "Well, then you come along and say 'ah, but it's real this time.' It is any wonder he might act strangely? How does he know for certain it is different this time?"

Elizabeth was silent a long moment. Then she said suddenly, "I think I have to go back now Nadir."

* * *

Erik located Anton in his dressing room as he had expected despite the fact that it was time for lunch. He had not, however, counted on the possibility that Anton would not be alone. To make matters worse, the company that Anton had was Christine. And in a picnic basket she had packed lunch, which they were to eat—in the dressing room of all places. Erik rolled his eyes behind his mask. A picnic lunch on the roof, perhaps, or beside the lake, maybe. A picnic lunch _outside the Opera_ might be enjoyable. But a _picnic in a dressing room_? How uninspired! He was annoyed on the boy's behalf as the boy seemed too utterly enraptured to notice the lack of creativity.

Erik was not, however, going to let the company of Christine interfere with his plan. He had been meaning to speak to Anton since the second performance. He had momentarily allowed Elizabeth to distract him with the matter of the grasshopper and the scorpion, but this _needed_ to be said. Three additional performances had taken place without his attendance. He preferred not to speculate about the possibilities of what more had occurred. He listened carefully to their voices until he was certain of the exact location of each of them within the room. Then he spoke very softly directly in Anton's ear. Christine would most assuredly not hear him.

"I think we have had ourselves a bit of a misunderstanding, my boy," he said.

After a long pause he heard Christine's voice. "Whatever is the matter darling?"

"Nothing," he told her. "Just... be still a moment."

"I rather thought you would marry her _first_," Erik continued, "though I know you said it would be some time before you were ready for that. I had no idea you wanted _one without the other_."

"Anton!" Christine said sharply. "What's the matter?"

"Hush, I tell you."

Erik smiled beneath the mask and suppressed the urge to laugh aloud. "We desperately need to talk. I think I should like to see you immediately. Do you care to take a walk in the third cellar? Your entrance has been closed, alas, but I would meet you somewhere that we could speak in private."

"You will tell me what is going on this minute!" Christine insisted, her voice rising to something very like panic.

Anton's voice was low but fearful. "Christine," he said in scarcely a whisper, putting his lips against her ear, "I fear I must have a conversation with your father." Erik, straining his ears behind the wall could not discern all the words.

At this Christine let out a cry and fell back from him. "My poor father," she whispered. "Anton, you frighten me now. You cannot speak with my poor father. One cannot converse with the dead."

"You are a cruel woman, Christine Daaé!" Anton fairly shouted, and Erik startled. He'd certainly heard _that_ clearly enough, though it made little sense under the circumstances. "What kind of a woman shows such dishonor to her family? I have not been the best of sons but I am not—I do not—I—" His anger overtook him and he let out an incoherent sound of frustration. "You disgust me!" he said at last.

"Dishonor!" she cried. "Disgust! Anton, why?" Erik folded his arms and waited in confusion.

"Forget it. I would sooner speak with him than lunch with you!" He stepped out and slammed the door behind him leaving Christine in his dressing room alone. He paused a moment outside the door to compose himself and heard her speaking aloud, seemingly to no one.

"Oh, this is a cruel trick!" She cried. "I thought you were _gone_! You _told _me you were leaving! _How dare you?_ You will not tell him you are my father!"

Anton hurried away, still more angry than before.

Erik listened to Christine rage at him from the dressing room. "I thought you were beyond hiding behind walls and pretending to be what you are not. I thought you had changed. I thought were different now but you are worse than ever! If you wanted me, why did you not simply accept me when I came to you? And if you don't then leave me alone! I believed you, Erik! But no! You would not have your fun if I merely accepted you. No! Instead you wish to continue with lies and manipulation. I won't fall for your tricks again, Erik. I really believed you had changed! How dare you?"

Erik departed leaving Christine to continue her tirade to no one. He must reach the third cellar quickly or Anton was like to become lost. Her words went with him, however. _If you wanted me, why did you not simply accept me?_

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** If I stop putting this here, will you all still continue to review me? :big cheesy hopeful grin:


	112. Chapter 112: Fugue

**Author's Note****:** Given how convoluted things are getting at the Opera house, maybe we should change the title to The Phantom of the _Soap_ Opera... Anyway, if you need a break from the agony and angst, go check out the little gem of a story written by FortunesFavour and L'Arcange (and posted by me, because they're nice like that and let me post it!) that reveals all the strangeness that went on in that closet of the little room on the 2nd floor of the Hotel Royal in Wilhelm's room: The Phantom, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And no, don't ask me... I really have no idea where it is heading. In the meantime, for a bit more of what happens to Erik after he emerges from the closet, continue here.

Oh yeah... this one starts off a little straightforward but gets a bit strange at the end. If you have questions you can either wait for the next chapter, guess, or PM me. If you PM, I probably can't respond until after 6 because I have to work from noon to five today. If it helps any, I should tell you the title of this chapter does NOT have to do with a piece of music but with a psychologically dissociative state. You can easily look it up on the Internet, but if you'd rather PM me, that's fine.

* * *

Elizabeth was out of breath when she reached the house on the lake. She and the Persian had walked several blocks at a slow leisurely pace to reach the cafe, but she had run nearly all the way back in her impatience to wait for a carriage. Then, as she had not waited for Nadir and he had taken the key to the office with him, she had to enter by another passage and she did not have a lantern. She tried to hurry but the more she rushed the more it slowed her pace, for she repeatedly lost her footing and had to grasp the wall. Several times she had fallen; she would be quite a sight when she at last got back to Erik.

She quickened her pace once again as she reached the gate for she was suddenly able to see. It took her a moment to realize that the reason for this was that a man was walking towards her with a lantern. She leaned against the wall in the shadows and wished she had worn black, or that she had learned to disappear as Erik did.

"Monsieur?" a heavily accented male voice called. Elizabeth's heart began to pound. That accent was strangely familiar. She said nothing.

"Who's there?" the voice called again. She would not answer. Perhaps she had not really been seen. Alas, but she had. "What are you doing down here," the accented voice asked suspiciously. She should step out of the shadows and address him. She should ask whomever that was what _he_ was doing here. Erik had reminded her to keep the gate locked. Erik had stated he did not want any unpleasant surprises. Surely _this_ was one of _those_. Now she could not open the gate. She could not get to Erik. She looked about in despair and took a step backward. Arms closed around her.

She didn't scream. She had never screamed in such a situation. It gave the other an advantage. This time, however, she almost had, so frightened she had been. But she recognized the feel of those ropy arms. Erik. She leaned against him heavily. "You came back," he murmured softly near her ear. "I wasn't sure you would come back."

_Of course I came back _she needed to tell him. _I _always _come back_. But the other was still there. She said not a word. Then Erik spoke again from behind her to whomever was in front of her. He called out in Russian. _Russian? _She broke free of his arms and pushed him away. With her back to the wall, she looked back and forth between the two men. Erik was accusing someone—in Russian—of dishonoring someone. The other man was rambling about Erik's... _daughter?_ Well, she hadn't spoken Russian in perhaps thirty years. Surely it was was sketchy. After all, hadn't Nadir just confirmed there was not a romantic past? Even so, Anton's accent combined with the Russian language brought to her mind fleeting thoughts that were too vague even to be called memories, but they were horrifying nonetheless. And _Erik _was a part of the Russian conversation. It was like waking into the most fearsome nightmare. "Erik!" she hissed. "Russian?"

He hesitated to reach for her. She had just pushed him away quite roughly. Maybe she had come back only for her belongings. He'd have hung his head with regret, but Anton was standing only a meter away. "Yes, of course," he responded nonchalantly. "And German, you recall."

"Yes but..."

Erik crossed to the gate and unlocked. "A moment please," he told Anton in French. Apparently, there was no keeping secrets in any language anymore. Since when did she know any Russian? He glared at her and she trudged past him and through the gate keeping a wary eye on Anton as she did.

A few paces through the gate Erik hesitated. There was no place to talk to Elizabeth in this tunnel, and Anton's absence would be missed if he did not talk to him right away. He unlocked the gate again and ushered the boy through. He was utterly perplexed at the guarded manner in which Elizabeth and Anton regarded one another.

Standing awkwardly in the parlor Erik gestured at Anton. "I have to talk with him. He's expected back above." Elizabeth went into the Louis-Philippe room without a word and closed and locked the door. Erik stared after her through the black silk.

Anton's expression was rather like a prolonged wince. "I thought you said you didn't have a wife, Monsieur," he said confusedly.

"I don't. Yet. Or... anymore." He sighed. He didn't know so how could he possibly explain it to someone else. It certainly wouldn't do to try to introduce her; he'd have no idea how, considering. Perhaps she was in there putting those items back into those valises as he stood looking at Anton. He sighed again. "Forgive me," he told the boy. "I have..." he gestured. "I really must check on her."

Anton shrugged and Erik tugged unsuccessfully at the doorknob. She'd locked him _out?_ He jiggled the knob to be certain, then knocked. The door opened a crack and her eyes blinked out at him. He looked at her plaintively and when she did not respond he remembered the mask. He groaned in frustration. On, off... seemed he couldn't recall as of late. "May I... come in? Only a moment?" he suggested.

His voice was timid so she opened the door wide enough to permit him to enter. She quickly closed it behind him and locked it again. "You don't need to..." Never mind. Why did he care? "You will be packing your things now, I presume?"

She regarded him carefully. "Are you telling me to?"

"Do you wish to?"

"Do you want me to?"

He merely looked at her. He had run out of questions and he wasn't about to answer hers for he didn't know what answer was expected.

She looked back at him. She could scarcely see his eyes through the mask, which hung at a haphazard angle making him appear disheveled despite his pristine clothing. "Take that..." she gestured disgustedly "..._thing_ off," she told him. This was not going well at all. She had intended to return and throw herself into his arms, calm his fears and reassure him. Now there was this unwelcome visitor, the strange revelation of Erik's conversation in Russian and the fact that she could not see his expression combined with a sick fearful feeling the reason for which she could place. Everything was going wrong. Had it only been a few hours ago she had stood at the table and looked at the turned scorpion? Now everything was falling to pieces and she wanted to just crawl back into bed and pretend the day had never even begun. If she felt that badly, how must Erik feel?

By the sharpness of his movements he was dissatisfied with her request that he remove the mask, but he complied with a quick snap of his right hand. It fluttered to the ground as he released it. Beneath was as blank an expression as he could possibly manage. So much for that helping her to understand him.

"I'm not leaving unless you're telling me to," she said at last. "_Are_ you?"

He drew a heavy breath. "No." It was as though it pained him to utter the word.

They stood several minutes like that with Anton awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot outside their door in the parlor. He knew already he was in serious trouble, for the words in his ear in the dressing room had been quite clear. What could be the result of his actions, he wondered. He remembered words from the night he had been here before... Five years ago, you would be dead. He wondered how idle a threat that had actually been and how much danger he was in tonight. And who was the strange dark woman? She looked not a bit like Christine, so it should not be her mother. Then again, she looked not a bit like him, either... He shifted again. How long would he stand here? But he dare not leave before he was told.

Erik pressed his hands over his face. "I have to go out there," he said.

"Go out there. We can talk later." It was plain from the look on his face that he was not anxiously anticipating their talk. She surrendered once again and stepped closer to him, taking his hands. "I'm not angry anymore, Erik. What you said was terrible and I shall have to explain why to you, but I won't be angry with you. It is not your fault."

He sighed. "You cannot understand," he said looking away.

"No. You cannot understand. You insist you want to be loved yet you reject the purest expression of love without consideration." She squeezed his hands. "We will talk later."

"You will not join me?"

"Must I?"

"Please?"

She sighed and nodded her assent. He turned and strode out of the room. "Erik!" she hissed after him, stopping to retrieve his mask. Apparently, however, he did not care if the young Russian singer saw him barefaced. His lack of insecurity any other time would have filled her with joy, but today she felt worse instead. This was hardly a proper mood for meeting guests, but she stood at his side and offered the boy her hand guardedly.

Erik was secretly quite unhappy, regardless of whether Elizabeth stayed by his side to retreated out of sight for the timing of her return had entirely ruined his plans for Anton. He had planned to rage at him when he got him alone. He might have even hurt him if he wasn't penitent enough. Instead his brief conversation with Elizabeth had altered his mood entirely and now she would be watching him.

"Her mother, I presume?" Anton said, bowing slightly after having pantomimed a kiss on Elizabeth's hand. Elizabeth and Erik exchanged confused glances. Elizabeth simply shook her head. She'd never had a daughter, so she didn't have to ask. Erik paced, attempting to work himself into an appropriate amount of anger. At last he moved closed to the boy, bent down to look in his eyes and hissed, "What the hell were you thinking?"

The boy hung his head. "I fear we weren't thinking, sir. We were caught up in the music."

Erik paused. Then it was his fault! He glanced at Elizabeth. She was pale and leaning against the wall. She was failing him. He was about to need her, and something was wrong.

Anton took advantage of the moment's reprieve. "I tried to tell her it was not a good idea," he grumbled. "I knew you would not approve, but did not seem to have any concern about that. Actually, it bothers me the way she speaks of you. My father and I do not get along, but I would never say anything insulting about him. The way she speaks of the man who is responsible for her life disgusts me."

Erik had begun to pace again but here he stopped. In what way was he the man responsible for Christine's life? No, he hadn't managed to become important to her until it was too late, and even now he really doubted she knew what she offered to promise. No, he was not responsible for her... Then why was he questioning Anton like this? His eyes, looking inward, did not notice the expression on Anton's face as he glanced anxiously around. "I have made a serious error," he told the boy at last. "You are free to go."

Anton nodded and turned to go, to ashamed to even offer his hand or his customary bow. Two steps toward the door, however, he gathered his strength and turned back. "I shall not see her again if she will not offer you proper respect. I should tell her that. I have written my father an apology. I should say she owes hers far more."

Erik rubbed his temples. What had Christine's father to do with this conversation? Then he glanced at Elizabeth and around him at the little parlor. Oh no. He sunk into the nearest wing-backed chair and pressed his temples hard with his first two fingers. "Her father," he said slowly and deliberately "is dead."

Anton ran the fingers of his right hand through his long hair pushing it back momentarily before it fell into his eyes once more. "But she got so upset when I said—She told me she did not want to talk about—She said I could not—Oh my. She said one cannot converse with the dead. Oh." It was a moan of both recognition and horror.

Erik smirked sarcastically. "No, she did _not mean me_." Dead. Even the kind continually made such comments.

"No, I didn't mean—"

Erik held up his hand. He simply did not want to hear the explanation. He felt... well, rather peculiar, actually. Something he'd felt before, yes... but when? It was a strange fullness, something turning within, something... building? It was not his usual anger but something _darker_. Something broke within "You thought she was _mine?_" he belted out at last. "My _child?_ Are you _blind?_ Look at her _face!_"

Anton stood. "I—I am sorry," he sputtered. "But I—" He pointed at the door. "I should tell _her_—" He hesitated.

"Go," Erik said and was surprised at the way his voice sounded. It bordered on diabolical. It was not his own. The boy hesitated, turned back, took a step towards him. "Go, now!" he thundered. That voice was positively not his, but he had heard it before. He was certain he'd heard it before. One night... The Persian... He felt very, very far away. He glanced around. There was Elizabeth, paler and whiter still than before, standing against the wall. There he was, standing in the middle of the room near the chair. There was the boy, slipping out the door at rather a high rate of speed looking both regretful and apologetic. There would be Elizabeth leaving behind him if there was a brain behind those patient eyes. She had already left the wall, was moving across the parlor. Then he had her in his arms, forcefully. He would not permit her to leave.

But her arms went around him easily as though that had been her intent all along.

"None of your tricks," he growled. He wasn't falling for _that_ again. A moment of kindness and she'd think she could leave!

Her hands moved up his back, touched the back of his head. They were sinking. They were upon the floor and sinking still. They landed in a strange posture, she in his lap, perhaps inappropriately, but he would keep her here, whatever the cost. She would remain here with him forever, even if it meant he had to...

His eyes widened. What was he thinking? He looked at her with frightened eyes. He should warn her, but momentarily he could not find his voice. He reached up to tear off the mask; he had forgotten it was not there. Silence. It was dark. So very dark. There was nothing... only blackness and silence. Why was it so very dark?

But she was suddenly there awkwardly beside and behind him, though when they had fallen he was sure she was in his lap... Ah but she was there—still there! might he _keep _her?—and the mask was in her hand. She offered it to him but he stared dumbly at it. His hands trembled and he found his face suddenly wet, though he didn't think he'd been crying. The room was tilting strangely; it was like being on a ship in a storm. After a moment he realized the room was stationary but _he _was tilting. She was behind him, her arms beneath his and wrapped about his torso, her head upon his shoulder, and they were rocking back and forth. He looked around. She was leaning against the sofa and he was leaning against her. He frowned. He remembered standing between the chair and the door. How had he gotten _here_?

He blinked at her. "It happened again," he whispered. "I didn't think it would happen again."

Was she humming? Indeed. So faintly in a manner he had never heard before.

He twisted to face her. "What did I do?"

She paused. "Hush. Nothing. You only yelled a little." No, she wouldn't tell him the rest. Not just yet, anyway. She should reassure him, though. The most important part: "No one's hurt," she said. She kissed him beneath his ear, the way she had all those times he had worn the mask. His panic continued a moment, then washed away. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Next chapter tomorrow would be nice, but no promises. If not tomorrow (Friday) then definitely Saturday, okay?


	113. Chapter 113: Sauterelle

**Author's Note****:** For those totally lost as to what happened to Erik at the end there, I decided to call the chapter "fugue" as in "dissociative fugue" not as in musical themes, and Erik's state at the end is... well... more or less dissociative.

Dissociative Fugue: a state of mind characterized by abandonment of personal identity, along with the memories, personality and other identifying characteristics of individuality. Shall we say a psychotic break? He just snapped. Don't worry. He'll be fine. It's not a permanent state and no one died this time, so he'll obviously recover.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

When he woke again, he pressed her for details. The last time this had happened he never did find out how those curtains in his room had come down or how he had bloodied his knuckles. There was no one who had seen. The time before that... The time before that was far worse, for there was the dead body in the lake, the boy chained up in the dungeon, the poor sweet girl who let him kiss her crying, and someone who would later become a friend nearly dead... and everyone was too fearful of him to repeat a word of it. Had it ever happened _before_ that? Well, how could he be certain? There was one thing for certain now, though. This time, though, there was someone who could tell him what he had done and perhaps prevent any harm from occurring when it happened again.

"I must show you something."

"You _must_ rest. Show me something later."

"No. Now." He pushed her away roughly and got to his feet. He staggered to the far wall of the parlor and found the hidden switch that revealed the rest of the room. A wall behind a wall, and this one had shackles and chains attached. The couch was near enough one could sit upon it and still be bound.

She narrowed her eyes. Though she had not seen it before, she most certainly remembered this feature of the room. Considering his wild behavior earlier, she kept a distance away.

"If it happens again, and you have not left me, and if I notice in time to warn you, you will bring me here."

She stared in horror. He was serious. "Absolutely not!"

She backed away, motioning him to follow, but he stood, morosely holding the chains. "Promise me..." His eyes were mournful.

"Come here," she coaxed. "Come lie down, and we'll talk about it."

After a long moment he dropped the shackle at last and followed her sullenly to the Louis-Philippe room where she insisted he lie down. She half-knelt on the bed beside him, her feel curled under her, and ran her fingers absent-mindedly through his hair. It was serious. They needed help, but they would not find it at Salpetriere; at least, she would not dare ask as long as Wilhelm was still there. After what he had said and the look in his eyes, she had no doubt that even if Erik were entirely sane Wilhelm would find a way to put him away just for spite. Combine that with _this _and he would never again see the light of day, or even shimmering moonlight or the Opera cellars. No, she was on her own for the moment. Could she even tell Nadir? How quickly he leapt to such conclusions! _And now she understood why at last_.

In the meantime, she leaned close and tried not to cry. "Of course I came back," she told him, responding to his first words to her hours earlier. His vacant eyes flickered slightly. "I never really left," she continued. "You must never think that. You upset me. I needed a moment away. I will always return."

It was a very nice thing to say. Christine had said something almost exactly like that once.

"Even now?" he asked her softly. After an argument perhaps, though it greatly surprised him. After this terrible occurrence, unthinkable. But what _had_ he done? Why couldn't he remember? He suddenly broke into tears sobbing brokenly through slightly parted malformed lips.

She waited until the sobs subsided slightly then whispered, "What happened?"

His fists clenched. "That is the problem," he said through tight teeth. "I have no idea! You know what happened better than I. Suppose _you tell me_!"

She took a deep breath. Might as well. He would only become more frantic if he suspected she withheld anything. "The young man—the boy with the Russian accent—he came here. You argued with him a bit. You were angry, but you told him to leave. You were so very upset."

"I remember that. What did I _do_?" It was through clenched teeth.

It was not so much what he had done as how he had looked and sounded. It was not what he had done but what he had _said_, who he had _been_. "You were angry. You said some things that sounded terrible. I don't remember them exactly, so please don't press me. You didn't hurt anyone." That last wasn't quite true, but her feelings would surely recover with time. He hadn't hurt anyone physically. Of course, that wasn't accurate either she thought rubbing her wrists for a moment, noting the soreness of her arms even further up from their struggle. He hadn't hurt anyone permanently. That was what mattered. Lord, how she had learned to rationalize. They clearly could not live like that long term. "I think it is more important we learn how to avoid its happening again," she suggested.

"The fact is it happened again," he moaned. "It _already_ happened again. There is no way to avoid it."

Soothing hands continued to caress him, reminding him to stay calm. "Suppose you tell me when it happened before?"

"The night with" he gestured toward the parlor "those!"

"Those..." It was a question.

"The scorpion. And the grasshopper."

"With Christine?"

He shut his eyes tight and nodded.

"The night you don't know what happened to Philippe, the Comte de Chagny?"

It was a hiss. "Yes."

She gave him a gentle squeeze instead of a response.

"And the day I saw you with Nadir. After the bookshelf." She waited. "I went to the dungeon. When I came out, my hands were bloodied, the tapestries and curtains torn down. And Nadir was dead."

Inside she was full of terror. If he thought Nadir was dead, something was very wrong indeed. "Nadir isn't dead, Erik."

"I know, I know, but he _looked_ dead and I could not remember..."

"Oh dear." They were silent as she worried. Chaining him up was unacceptable. She needed to get him actual help. Sadly, though, it might ultimately result in his being bound anyway, and she couldn't bear the thought of him locked in such a place, though she thought herself dreadfully selfish to keep him here and put him through more of this just because she could not bear the thought of it. Even so, she simply _couldn't_. And if she could, he would never forgive her. Would it matter? Either way she wouldn't see him again except through the little window in the door. No. They were definitely going to have to confront this alone. She sighed. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"Which time?" He was miserable.

She thought. "The first time."

"Standing beside the lake."

"What were you thinking?"

"She doesn't love me. She is crying. She would rather die than try to love me. I would rather die..."

"Go on."

He sighed again. "She was going to run away from me forever. I could not imagine how it would be without her. So I went, to convince her. But I didn't think it through. I took her during the performance. No, I _did _think of it. But I _had _to anyway. She was going to leave immediately after. I had a fine dinner planned for her. I was to ask for her hand in marriage. But she said... Oh, if you had heard all she said about me. She is like the rest. She will never love me. _No one_ will ever love me... this was still within the house. Then I heard the bell. What more now? Christine had tried to kill herself. Her forehead was bloody and I tried tying her up so she would not hurt herself, but then she cried and cried. Everything I did made things worse. Then someone rang the bell..."

"Then?"

"I went outside. I took the reed with me in case someone was crossing in the boat. Then it goes dark. I am wet and hearing things I am certain cannot be. It gets worse and worse. A man is dead. Two more nearly so. And she... Still alive! Of course I had to send her away. You understand."

"As you try to send me away?"

At this he turned to her at last. "I didn't."

They looked at each other a long time. "Tell me about the time with the bookshelf."

"I followed you. After Nadir, you went home. The heavy fellow came to visit you. You kissed him. Then you gave away the diamonds."

"I thought you understood that."

"Now. But then..." His voice trembled.

"Ah."

"I followed you the rest of that day. Consider all the people you visited that day."

"Yes."

"I... imagined... that there was something special for each one of them. It seemed I had put all my hope into you, and of all you visited, I had gotten the least of all."

She frowned deeply. He had gotten the most. Indeed, he had gotten _all of her_. Everyone else was merely a steppingstone on the way back to him. "I wanted to surprise you with it," she told him. "I had it planned. When at last I couldn't rationalize keeping you at the house anymore, we would come back here... I was going to get the driver to leave us right at the front steps. You would be concerned. I would persuade you to walk with me up the front steps. You would refuse, perhaps even argue with me. I would insist. At the door I would simply hand you the key and watch for your reaction."

"I would have been masked."

"I would be able to tell anyway."

He regarded her through narrowed eyes. "And why would you do this?"

"Because it might make you... happier?"

"And why does Erik's happiness matter to you?"

She looked around. "You are the only man named Erik in the room, dear." And when he stared at her in confusion, "Try 'Why does my happiness matter?' and I shall answer you."

"Well, why does it?"

"You won't ask it?"

He sighed.

"I'll tell you anyway. It is because I love you." There was an instant in which all his former fear seemed to disappear from his face, but it returned in moment and she saw it. "Do not worry about me, Erik. You don't have to marry me if you don't wish. I fear you don't really love me at all, and that's all right. It is not your fault. It is not as though one chooses."

"Not... love you?" He was incredulous. "Why should..." he paused, struggled, then managed it. "_I_... not love you?" Why, of course he did. It was why knowing she was there had allowed him to sleep at all when he awakened after surely having done something terrible and destructive. It was why he was pleased that she returned and why he was hurt when she left. It was why they had argued at all—he wished to protect her, even from himself. It was why the wedding had to be perfect and it was why the mass he'd written with Christine in his mind was not good enough. It was why he had turned the scorpion at all! How could she doubt him? It was why he showed her the secret path to Nadir's office and entrusted her with a key to the gate that barred the world out forever. It was why he showed her where the diamonds were hidden. He had gone above in broad daylight in the only the black silk mask to seek out the priest. Would he do _that_ for anything less than love? It was why he asked the question hypothetically before he dared consider it in reality; he didn't want her to feel guilty or condemn herself to a life of misery over mere pity. He had taken her to the roof of the Opera, something he had never done before. Christine had taken Raoul there, but he had been alone. He had always been alone, and now he shared with her everything! It was why he sought her out when he could have easily enjoyed whatever Marcelle offered him. She was the reason he poured out the Chlorodyne. How could she even _imagine_ that he did not love her? It was why it killed him to hear that Wilhelm call him a freak in her presence. Wilhelm had never seen him, knew nothing of his past. Where had he learned such a thing? From her? It pained him to think that she might have first uttered it. But it didn't matter, for standing in that closet after all he'd been through, he had been _certain at last_.

He had rather _suspected_ it before that moment. He'd suspected it when he heard a knock at his door one evening and realized that his heart leapt and he hoped it was she! A sob stuck in his throat as he remembered throwing open the door and trying not to show his disappointment to Nadir. His mind reeled as he drifted back over the months remembering each interaction. What had he done wrong? What could he possibly have done wrong? 'Everything' was the likely answer as he'd simply had to guess what was expected, but he had been sure it was obvious even as he tried to hide it lest he be hurt again. There was that one thing, though: he had never _said_ it.

She said not a word as he pondered all this, watching every human emotion pass over his face in turn. At last when he looked up at her, confusion the obviously predominant emotion, she said, "I rather fear that you have decided it must be me only because I am willing to stay."

She said this last with an absolutely blank expression, but Erik sat up and looked at her carefully. Either she had lost her uncanny ability to hide her emotions or he had somehow acquired the ability to discern more than she willingly revealed. In the past when she had insisted he take off that horrid mask, he had often been tempted to retort '_you first,'_ but now she was quite unable to hide her grief from him, just as she had been unable to hide her fear earlier. And he realized, yet again with dread, that he had become so enamored with the issue of Anton and Christine—Anton, whom he had initially sought out only to distract himself from Elizabeth's absence—that he had completely neglected to react to her apparent fear. Well, no wonder she thought he didn't care for her! What else had he missed? He thought back over all the ways he knew for certain. It was likely that there were at least as many things that he had missed. What could he possibly say now? Should he first respond to what she had suggested? Apologize? Find out why she acted so fearfully?

In his confusion, he said nothing at all. "It's all right," she told him at last, patting his arm. "I'm not angry about it. I'll always be at least your friend, I hope." She was distancing herself. He could see it plainly.

"No!" he cried out at last, clutching one of her hands. "No, you're wrong," he managed frantically. Now she would leave over _this_, and it would be the greatest tragedy. He would have to surrender entirely, however. There could be no pretending any confidence or knowledge. She was not naive enough to fall for tricks. "Please," he told her, "I haven't any idea what to do. I want you to stay. I am so..." Could he admit it aloud? "So very... afraid! If I say... if I tell you... that you will go. Everyone always goes. Please..." He held out his arms to her. "I couldn't bear it if you were to leave me."

"Never, Erik, never!"

Her arms around him tightly told him it was true. Maybe it was time he believed her at last. He sighed. "I make you angry. I make you angry, and you leave." This words were uttered into her shoulder as he continued to cling to her.

Ah, dear Erik. He couldn't understand. "I will not _leave you_. I may leave the room. Today it was a far better alternative than saying something terrible to you. Would you prefer that?" He was shaking his head, but he wasn't certain. Hearing something terrible might be better than her departure. "If I exit the room, it is f_or a brief period of time_. I will always return. If something I say seems to suggest otherwise, you must simply assume you misunderstood. If I am gone too long and you must speak with me, come after me. It reassures a woman if she walks away and you go after her."

At last he drew away with a concerned look. "It didn't reassure Christine. It made her mad with fear."

"Forget Christine. I am talking about me. It would reassure _me_."

"Someday, you will change your mind. You will change your mind and wish to leave, and I will hold you here because you told me this, and you will think me cruel." There was genuine fear in his eyes and it was contagious for she worried if he became too angry, too fearful, was suddenly once again under too much pressure, he would be again as he was earlier and then there would be nothing she could do but wait and hope again. They could not continue in this fashion long. It would destroy them both.

She sighed. There was no way to be certain what would happen in the future, but his argument was at least a rational one. It was difficult to argue with his logic, but at least in such a state he could be reasoned with. "We shall think of something," she said. "Maybe we simply need some time to think of something."

He was far ahead of her, however, for it was only an instant later that the solution occurred to him. He motioned to her to wait as he left the room. When he returned she was lounging across the bed, propped upon one elbow. He approached her timidly, knelt upon the bed and handed her the grasshopper. Rather, he attempted to hand it to her. She refused to accept it, drawing away and telling him, "No, Erik. That is not the one I chose."

"This is the one that means no," he insisted. "You shall hold it always. As long as you retain it, I will believe what you say—that you do not wish to leave, that you will always return, that you... you..."—his voice broke and he rushed over the words—"_That you love me_. When it is no longer true, when you wish me to let you go, you will give me this. It is how I will know. So I do not keep you... against your will."

She smiled at him. It was an ingenious idea and quite a thoughtful gesture. It was a pity she didn't have a grasshopper she could issue immediately to Wilhelm. She smiled at the thought as she accepted Erik's grasshopper between her finger and thumb. "If we visit the sea, perhaps I shall throw it in," she suggested.

He was grave. "You _must_ keep it. So I know for certain."

"Oh, Erik!" She set it on the low table beside the bed. "I'll keep it if you wish it, but I won't be needing it."

"You might at that. Look what happened tonight."

She glanced at him sideways. Perhaps he remembered more than he dared admit. There was a moment when she had been truly afraid. Perhaps he had seen this. Or perhaps he saw her fear in the tunnel and misunderstood. There was so much to explain and yet that was something for which she had not the words. No, it was easier to focus on Erik now. There was a pattern and a disconnect. First, he heard Christine say that she would leave forever. Next, he thought she, Elizabeth, was leaving forever. The third time was a simple discussion with Anton. The first two seemed dire, desperate and the third, trivial. Had he gotten worse? Did it take less to shatter his perhaps now-fragile mind? Or was there something more to the conversation with that boy? The boy certainly caused her to feel panic, but Erik had acted as though there was no cause for concern. Did he hide some fear? Surely, he was hiding something.

It was scarcely time for supper and due to the strange series of events that had taken place beginning that morning Elizabeth had not eaten anything that day. Even so, she drifted off to sleep, for she was utterly exhausted after her tussle with Erik.

Her fear was gone at last now he noted as he lay down beside her. He wouldn't stay the night; he would just lie look at her for a little while, perhaps. She looked so lovely now that she was not afraid, and he lay carefully beside her and watched her sleep thinking thoughts for which he hated himself: thoughts like, "She looks as beautiful as though she were dead."

* * *


	114. Chapter 114: Instinct

**Author's Note:** Is it time for a happier chapter yet? Maybe so. Did I tell you I've completely snapped? Yes... the Erik plushie I obtained previously was supposed to be for my desk at work, to keep me focused on the idea that sometimes people act terribly because they are hurting terribly. (Makes sense for a counselor's desk, yes? I thought so...) Well, in mere days I became so attached to the little thing that I couldn't possibly part with it. I had to order a SECOND one for my office. Could someone please notify the authorities? I have crossed some boundary into insanity and now I fear I shall not be able to find my way back on my own. Help. It's a little scary over here.

**Disclaimers: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Several days had passed. They settled into a routine that mirrored what they had done in the house on the edge of the city. Elizabeth went for supplies once and stopped to reassure Nadir that everything was wonderful below ground. Erik compromised with Elizabeth by agreeing to spend his nights in the parlor, using the couch if he chose to sleep, which she rather insisted he at least attempt each night, especially as he still desired to be "like everyone else." The broken mirror was discovered, discussed and removed without being replaced. The decision to own a mirror or not could be addressed someday in the future, perhaps. Erik's room, with its funerary tapestries and repetition of the Dies Irae was locked, and Erik confined himself to the piano instead of the organ. It had a happier sound anyway. They would decide what to do with the coffin later.

Elizabeth resumed her secret relaxation trick with Erik, who, if he suspected anything, chose not to complain. They ate regularly: three meals a day and something light at tea. The house on the lake was restored to its former condition; broken items were thoroughly repaired and irreparable things, sadly parted with to be replaced, perhaps, in time. Eventually, Erik showed Elizabeth the additional rooms that were not obvious to the untrained eye. On a day when he was feeling particularly free of distress he assured her he was entirely certain he couldn't possibly lose his mind this day and went above to handle the matter of her ring. She paced nervously in the passage until he returned. When they tired of the cellars, they followed Erik's secret route to the roof where they frequently spent their afternoons in the gardens or by the edge, looking out over the city. They avoided the Opera between entirely.

At last, after many days had passed, they discussed again what had occurred on the day Anton arrived, beginning with the argument that morning. Ultimately, the issue of intimacy was resolved by first being left unresolved.

"After all," Elizabeth insisted. "You should be very unhappy if we were to make an absolute commitment and you were to change your mind."

When Erik insisted his mind could not be changed, Elizabeth argued from every angle. This time, however, she was in a better state of mind to deal with his obduracy. This time she made certain to have had breakfast. This time, there was no discussion of the wedding ceremony or the church immediately prior, and this time, she made certain Erik was very relaxed before the discussion began. They sat upon the sofa in the parlor, as close as they had the day he had turned the scorpion, leaning against one another, and she closed her eyes as she listened to him insisting it was not possible.

"Instinct does tend to take over in such a situation, Erik," she said lightly, a smile playing about her lips.

He tried to glare at her, but today was not a day for arguing. "_Look_ at me, Elizabeth."

She opened her eyes. "I have been looking for months. All this time I have been looking. Is there something different you expect me to see?" But there was, actually, and this time it wasn't because one can get used to anything if one wishes or because love can turn ugliness to beauty. No, there was a definite change now. Erik's features were still Erik's features. His eyes sockets would always be sunken. He would never have a nose. Those things would not change, no. But his eyes were perhaps a little less sunken than before and the darkness beneath them which had made them appear more sunken still had vanished. His cheekbones were only a _little _less hollow; his skin was just _slightly _less yellow than before. With a relaxed expression on his face rather than an angry grimace, his lips did not seem nearly so twisted as they had once appeared, and when he smiled, she found it rather difficult to imagine that anyone would even shudder, much less scream.

When he did not answer her, she said at last, "Please, Erik, tell me this has nothing to do with your face."

"Erik would not lie to Elizabeth." It was her turn to pretend to glare and he quickly rephrased. "_I_ would not lie to _you_," he said carefully, and allowed himself a half laugh.

"Oh, Erik!" She shook her head and laughed aloud. Why should his face be any consideration at this point?

"It is difficult for me to believe you could be this foolish," he said, but with no trace of malice. "One would rather expect that someone such as you, someone who had been a parent, would think things through more thoroughly. I understand that you are apparently quite... fond... of me, strange though that may be, but one cannot allow such feelings to... interfere... with sound judgment."

She looked at him carefully a moment, going over his words in her mind. The day Anton had arrived, there had been a misunderstanding over Christine. First, there had been the argument over the wedding and what was to come after, then she had left. She returned, but before they could resolve anything, there had been a misunderstanding over Christine. A terrible misunderstanding in which, if she put the thoughts together correctly, Anton not only thought that Erik was... _Christine's father?_ but also had taken her honest admission that her father was dead as an insult to Erik and had inadvertently repeated this to Erik. Still, _that_ was not what seemed to bother him most. No. It was the simple fact that the error had been made. Anton thought...

It made sense.

You thought she was _mine?_" he had raged. "My _child?_ Are you _blind?_ Look at her _face!_"

Anton was most certainly incorrect, but Christine's face was not necessarily proof of that. Neither she nor John had had bony protrusions on their heads, and yet, there was Jacob. One could easily ascertain that Erik did not look at all like his parents. Still, one could only speculate... Yes, the two arguments were connected.

"Erik!"

He made a sound to indicate he was listening. Surely this would be some argument about what constituted sound judgment. He smiled at her tiredly. Today was not a day to argue. Please, not an argument he thought, raising a hand to his face to make sure he had left his mask off. Perhaps, if he had any luck at all in the world, his expression showed just how little he wished to argue.

Her eyes were intense. "Has this whole discussion anything at all to do with children?"

He sighed. Wasn't it obvious? Yes, it had to do with his face... someone such as she, who had been a parent. Hadn't he all but said it? He sighed again. Everything had to be said aloud, sometimes twice. It seemed they never understood one another. This time, however, he said nothing at all, for apparently the look on his face revealed his answer.

"Why, Erik, that's preposterous!"

"It is not," he said simply, without defending his position. It didn't need to be defended. It should be completely obvious. She was not so old that it was not a concern. He was still as hideous as ever. There was nothing whatever preposterous about his apprehension! He struggled with the possibility that until this moment she hadn't even considered such a possibility. It meant all this time they hadn't even been speaking about the same matter. Oh. That explained her walking out the other day entirely. Either she believed he did not want her, which was undoubtedly cruel, or she thought that he thought she did not truly want him, which was not only tantamount to calling her a liar, but was also insulting himself again, which she hated... He hung his head. If he considered it from her view, his words that afternoon had been unkind at best. He certainly hadn't been understanding, but that was exactly the issue. He hadn't understood.

She cocked her head to the side and bent towards him, trying to see his face in spite of the way his head hung. At last with her hands she coaxed him into lifting his chin so she could look him in the eye. "There are ways to avoid that," she said practically.

"There is only one way to be certain!" He turned away slightly. He was inconsolable. Now that they were talking about the same thing, she would at last understand his position and then there could be no denying it was the correct one. It had been his position all along, but now that he would be hers, he experienced a new level of dread. He leaned heavily against her putting his head on her shoulder, his face against her neck. Life would be agony. No, not quite agony, perhaps. He was old enough that it was not such a big deal anymore, perhaps. This was not that terribly awkward period when he was most likely in his thirties or that terrible horrid feeling as he grew from a child to a young man. This could be endured. And each day as he was around her more and more, the desire would lessen some. Why it hadn't yet he wouldn't speculate just yet, but surely it would, eventually. It _had_ to. There was no way possible it could be like this forever.

When she didn't respond after a long while, he turned back to look at her again. Her lower lip was between her teeth and her eyes were intent upon a corner of the room until she noticed him looking at her and focused on his eyes instead. He questioned her with his eyebrows.

She sighed. "All right, then," she said miserably. "I won't mention it again. It will be as you wish."

He buried his head in her shoulder again. "It is not _as I wish,_" he said miserably.

"Then we shall think of something." She put her arms around his waist.

"Perhaps you should simply go away after this. I fear it is what is best."

"How can it be best to condemn us both to lives of loneliness?"

"There are worse things than loneliness, aren't there? Loneliness at least we are both used to."

"Yes, we have been. You know what it feels like. Is there anything worse than loneliness?"

She was right. There was nothing worse than being completely and totally, utterly alone. Even good days were bad for there was no one to whom to say, "Listen to what I have composed!" or "Look what I have made!" Good days were bad and bad days were an unbearable hell through which one dragged one's self hoping not to wake to endure yet another. But the uncertainty... There was the small chance it could be even worse. "Children," he moaned. "They seem to have an uncanny tendency to look like their parents."

She made a sound like a laugh on which she choked. "Mine didn't look at all like me."

Ah, she looked so sad. He put an arm around her and pulled her to him. "I know," he whispered.

"Do you look like your parents?"

He sighed. "Sadly, not a bit." He brushed a thumb across her cheek, for there were tears there. "Please... tell me you did not want..."

She took a long shuddering breath and composed herself again. "I don't know what I want. I do know there ways to avoid such things. I do know that I do not want restrictions on our marriage."

"It would be irresponsible," he said softly.

She sat up suddenly and looked him in the eyes. "I thought you wanted to be loved," she told him. "I thought you wanted to love me." She could hold herself together no longer and broke into what she felt were childish tears against his chest. To the rational part of her mind it seemed most shallow and frivolous to continue insisting upon some physical display, but something deeper within her knew that with such an act love grew stronger still and to deny themselves that joy would be a great tragedy. Something deeper still simply yearned for him without words.

He held her close and ran his hands over her hair, telling himself that this simple act was joy enough for him, that if he did what she asked it would be only for her. "Please don't cry," he told her. "I can't bear to see you cry. Hush now. Erik will find a way." He winced and bit his own tongue. He had done it again, though she didn't seem to notice this time.

He lifted her chin and looked at her tearstained face. She was hardly the same woman who had entered his cellar all those months ago, confident and collected, but he loved her still. No. He loved her _now_. Then he had admired her, found her interesting, sought to fulfill his needs through her, but now he found that beneath it she was soft and fragile and maybe, if he tried very hard, just perhaps there was something he could offer her.

He touched her lips gently with the tip of his finger and when she trembled, he instinctively knew it was not with fear and this simple recognition threw him over some invisible boundary. He swept her into his lap and found himself kissing her with wild abandon. Her words from earlier, _instinct does tend to take over in such a situation_ echoed in his mind and he had no doubt at all that they were true, that they would be true when the time came. He then discovered it was possible to laugh and kiss at once, and it was a greater bliss than he had yet experienced.

* * *

A sou for your thoughts...


	115. Chapter 115: Dreams

**Author's Note****:** Your author is an idiot. That's right, an absolute idiot. I had the opportunity to get a French copy, as well as a 1911 original English publication of Leroux, and I didn't act on either one. Granted, the 1911 Leroux cost an absolute fortune, but it was not so much that I could not have afforded it. I don't know what I was thinking, but now they are both gone. So frustrated am I. I shall kick myself forever. Nevertheless, here is another not-that-depressing chapter, despite the fact that I, myself, am horribly upset.

Additionally, I wish to apologize for the long delay in posting. I realize that five days is not "long" by the average standards, but as I have developed a pattern of posting far more often than that, I feel the departure from my pattern requires an explanation. Based on when I am able to leave work and what I have to do when I get home, it is unlikely I will be able to write enough any one evening to post. I do hope to write at least a little every day, because I think that is important. Even so, it won't be enough to make a chapter. That being said, I will post a minimum of once a week, usually on Sunday. If I can post more often, I will. If for some reason I am unable to post some Sunday, I will try to let you know in advance.

Okay, now this part is important. It's THURSDAY EVENING and I'm about to post this. In an ideal world, I would post again on Sunday. Technecally, if I can't be certain I can post on Sunday, I should hold THIS until Sunday. I know many writers have chapters and chapters written and they hold them and disburse them slowly over time... but I hope that you will appreciate that I am putting this out a bit EARLY and please don't skin me alive if there is nothing new ready by Sunday. I will do my best, but in CASE I can't manage another one, THIS will count as my post for Sunday August 17.

**Disclaimers****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Free from the tension that had existed from the moment Elizabeth arrived—no, from the moment Christine arrived—no, perhaps it seemed it had always been there, all his life, as long as he could remember being aware of such things—but free of it at last, Erik convinced himself that the horrid disconnect would never happen again. He was loved for himself at last, and he and Elizabeth would find some solution to the other matter. Or not. He knew well enough that believing that something has been absolutely certainly denied is the surest way to become obsessed with the very thing one shall never have. He theorized that perhaps now that it acknowledge was possible and might happen, Elizabeth would forget the matter entirely, especially as they became more occupied with day to day aspects of married life.

Seated at the piano once again, he stopped playing and laced his fingers together, squeezing his own hands. He wondered what it would be like. How would it be different from it was at this moment, for example? She was in the kitchen while he was in the parlor. She was here every day. He was never alone. What would change? Yet, it would be better still than it was at present, surely, he speculated, but how exactly would it be?

It would be like the night he awoke far before morning and tapped at the door to her room. He listened carefully, heard nothing and knew she was still asleep. He turned to leave but remembered all her kind words. She would allow him to come in—would actually _want_ him to come in. It had been her desire that he move into her room immediately, but he chose to wait. In that regard, his marriage would be like anyone else's, he told himself. But this night he turned the knob and quietly opened the door. Perched carefully on the edge of her bed, he held her hand and closed his eyes. Yes. She was here. She had not left, and what he had just been dreaming was not real. Rather, it had been real, but it was long ago and far away, and it couldn't hurt him tonight. He squeezed her hand a little and she awakened with a soft cry.

"Erik?" she whispered, confused. They were in total darkness. He opened his eyes and patted her hand. She moved toward him. "Oh, Erik!" she said in a completely different tone, one that was glad he had come in.

When she sat up she found him on the farthest edge of the bed, uncomfortably perched and shoulders hunched into himself. "Why did you cry out?" she asked her softly.

She sighed. "Something unpleasant I was dreaming."

He looked at her in the darkness. "Then it happens to you as well," he murmured softly.

"To everyone," she answered. "Did it happen to you tonight?"

He nodded and shrugged. "It happens most every night."

"Yet tonight you came here." She drew the fingers of her free hand across their interlaced fingers. "Most every night, you do not."

"Some nights are worse than others. Tonight was worse than most."

She murmured something comforting and moved closer. "Do you want to tell me what it was?"

His voice was so soft she could scarcely hear. "No," he said. Then at last "Do you?"

She shook her head against him. "Not this time, no," she agreed.

Had they both been willing to share, they might have found some strange coincidences. The memories that plagued Erik that night involved an occurrence in Nizhny Novgorod. While Elizabeth's terror took place quite a distance to the north and west of Erik's, it was not so far that there should be any doubt but that Erik had passed through the area. Her nightmare was from a time when she was a young child. His was from a period in which he was rather older, but his apparent disinterest in his family had led him to not count the years since he had left; thus, they could not be fully certain of his age. It was, therefore, entirely likely they were remembering approximately the same time period. One might, if one were so disposed to believing such, speculate that perhaps they remembered the same night, for perhaps they had been two souls searching for one another throughout life and having missed each other that time by mere miles.

They did not, however, bother to compare their dark dreams. Instead, Erik stroked her hand absent-mindedly in the dark and apologized. "But I'm _glad_ you woke me," she insisted. "I'd rather be here with you then _there_ watching _that_." She shuddered and he wrapped his arms around her in the dark. He let her pull him downward so that he was lying beside her. She put her head upon his chest and willed him to stay. This time, he did, reflecting that the wedding needed to take place as soon as possible if only to assuage his guilt for behavior like this.

* * *

Morning. Erik was obsessing about the wedding ceremony before breakfast was on the table and, Elizabeth speculated, perhaps before the sun was up. It was difficult to know for certain down here, and it would bother her eventually she expected, but for the moment, but she was content remembering the cool feel of his skin as he lay beside her and put his hands upon her the night before. Life with Erik was such an unexpected departure from the tedium of the fifteen years recently past that she was even willing to wear those orange blossoms that he was mentioning—again—if it mattered that much to him. She wondered, though, where Erik got his ideas about wedding ceremonies and whether he had ever attended one at all. She rather suspected he had not, or if he had, perhaps only once. More likely, he'd seen weddings in operas.

"You're aware," she asked carefully, "that orange blossoms are for _purity_?"

He looked at her as though what she had spoken was ridiculous nonsense. He widened his eyes as if to say "So?"

"It's not appropriate, Erik," she told him softly.

He looked indignant, but his feelings were not directed at her. "Why ever not?" he asked first, and then, "Elizabeth is pure," he said ridiculously.

She gave him an imploring look. "Could we be honest about this for a moment, please?"

He folded his arms. "I am," he said, lowering his face to hers, his expression suddenly solemn. "Only the purest of women could find it in her heart to love Erik." His voice was soft. He reached a hand forward and touched her cheek with a bony forefinger. So touched she was by his words that she forgot to remind him that _he_ was Erik.

She smiled at him. Such words from him usually exasperated her, for she hated to hear him debase himself yet again after, she thought, they had come so far. Yet as she heard herself tell him, "Honestly, Erik, I've heard enough self-depreciation from you to last a lifetime!" she knew that even though it made her terribly sad, ultimately, it was one more thing she loved about him. His humility—as compared to other men's sense of entitlement—moved her. Even so, she had to reassure him yet again. "I have told you many times and you must believe me. _Anyone_ would love you if she had a chance to know you." And then she added softly, in awe as it suddenly occurred to her, "I am so fortunate, for I _should_ have had much competition."

It wasn't true, of course, he thought, but it was kind. She always had kind words for him, which she seemed to mean entirely. She loved him, she said. It explained the kind words. Nothing could explain the love itself, if it were true, but it didn't matter. He smiled at her and when she smiled in return, he felt warm inside. He flexed his bony fingers and wondered if he were for once warm on the outside as well. He smiled at the thought and was so overcome with emotion that it seemed best to change the subject rather than dwell on it.

"You are aware that the church allows only liturgical music, yes?"

She started to nod, then stopped suddenly with a worried expression. "There is a problem with what you composed?"

"No, no," he said hastily, shaking his head. "Not at all," and he smiled reflecting on a conversation he'd once had with Nadir, who certainly could not believe that anyone would marry Erik of her own free will. Nadir had been both correct and erroneous at once. "My wedding mass is already written," he'd told Nadir. "You ought to hear its Kyrie..." This last he repeated aloud to Elizabeth. He had been toying with Nadir a bit that night, perhaps, but it would actually happen now! And he sang as he had that night in Nadir's presence, "Kyrie... Kyrie... Kyrie Eleison..." He beat time with his hand upon his knee and he had with his heels upon the boat that night. But he stopped suddenly as he noticed the expression upon her face as he had upon Nadir's so long ago. Nadir's response had been one of disbelief and horror. For hers, however, he lacked words. "What is it my darling?"

She was so overcome she could not respond. Ordinarily, she was not much affected by mass at all. She rather disliked it and avoided it when possible, which had added to the suspicions about her in the time when Jacob was alive and shortly after his death. This morning, however, she was struck not only by the power and beauty of Erik's voice, but his selection as well. Of everything that might be sung at mass he had chosen the Kyrie: _Lord have mercy_, and he had sung them with a depth of feeling that she had never heard in all the years she had begrudgingly attended. She fairly glowed as she looked at him remembering his emotional confession in her hotel room that night. She wondered what he would confess to the priest. For that matter, what would _she _confess to the priest? She worried a bit about that, but shook her head as he asked her again if anything were wrong.

Satisfied that with his precious little experience with true human interaction he must simply believe her regardless of the expression upon her face, he continued his original line of thought. "They won't allow any outside music," he pointed out. If you wished to hear 'The Bridal Chorus' from _Lohengren_ for example, it would not be possible."

She sighed with relief. "I won't miss it in the slightest," she said, and he accepted this easily, though he had heard that many women—even those who were not particularly interested in opera—wished to have it played at their weddings. He studied her. His bride was not like any other in the world. Of course, she couldn't be. No other woman in the world would marry Erik, but he didn't mind at all; _this_ was the one he wanted.

And he wanted her sooner rather than later. "What is today? Sunday? I imagine it is not possible to have the dress by Wednesday. Perhaps the following Wednesday?" he suggested.

"My grandfather wanted me to get married on a Tuesday," she mused. "Perhaps I should this time, to honor his memory."

"Tuesday?" he asked her. "For wealth?" And when she looked at him with a confused expression he said, "Surely you know of it. It is an English rhyme." Then he looked away ashamedly. He had forgotten that her original tale was not entirely true; she was not British. It was better, actually. It avoided several issues with the church. But why then Tuesday? He asked her.

"He didn't say. He simply said Tuesday weddings were very good."

It didn't matter to Erik in the least. As a matter of fact, as Tuesday was a day earlier than Wednesday, he rather preferred it. He would have gone a step further and suggested Monday if she hadn't seemed so enamored with Tuesday. "Tuesday it is," he said grandly "In honor of Grandpa—what is your grandfather's name?"

"Just call him Grandpa," she said looking away.

What a peculiar woman he was about to marry, Erik mused. "Tuesday, then," he said quietly. "In honor of Grandpa."

They agreed and yet disagreed on the matter of Elizabeth's dress. They agreed that it should be simple; they disagreed over the definition of the word, however, for Erik's definition of simple was vastly extravagant of the finest silk and still required long train, which Elizabeth feared would be a problem if she were to have not attendants.

Still, in the end, when she visited the dressmaker, she made certain to discuss the train then whispered to her that if, by chance, her fiancé were to show up later that day, or indeed, later that week, to ensure that whatever he requested be done. "It means a lot to him," she offered by way of explanation and by the look in the woman's eyes, she reasonably discerned that the woman had, indeed, already spoken with Erik and had perhaps misunderstood their relationship at first. Now she cocked her head to one side and viewed Elizabeth as though she were something quite unusual while Elizabeth wondered what strange conclusion this individual had reached. She dismissed it. She was simply going to have to get used to such reactions. She pretended not to notice the woman's expression and commented on how forward she was looking to being married and what a wonderful husband her fiancé was sure to be. She managed it all without laughing at the other's expression once.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** Can you guys forgive me for the once a week thing? How about some comments about this one? I know we don't have a lot of action, but that's just the way it's going to be until the wedding and then... Nah, and I can't tell you "and then...!"


	116. Chapter 116: Madelaine

**Author's Note:**  
Wow. It's only a week, but it feels like it's been SUCH a long time. I wish I were still posting daily so that I could chat with you guys more. So, let's see. Stuff I should tell you. I had my first voice lesson with my friend the choir teacher. I was awfully surprised to have her classify me as a soprano because... well... I didn't think I was hitting notes that were that high, but then, hey, I guess that's why she's the teacher. What do I know. The fact that I opened my mouth and let out any notes at all is a feat in and of itself because... well... I just don't do that. Anyway, she's wonderful. We had to cancel our second lesson because we both work in public education full time and Friday, which was to be our lesson day, was the last day we could work on her classroom and my office before the kids hit the door Monday morning. So, I guess that means next lesson will be next Friday, though eventually we're switching to Monday.

Let's see... there's something else I'd like to share about clicking through the adoption listings (we've been listed as parents with an approved homestudy since we started fostering, but none of our foster kids have ever been available for adoption) but I'm not entirely sure it's appropriate to post in its entirety... but suffice to say, the original book and the experience of writing this story have changed my life in such a way that my husband and I both stopped to look at someone we might not have looked at previously. (And my stepdaughter, ever the jokester, dared to comment that I could change his name to Erik. Oh G-d. Something is very wrong about that.)

My husband has finally gotten over the whole "I don't like POTO" thing. He's stopped commenting that my phantom plushie is "scary" and today when I paused in a store to admire a clock with the Tour Eiffel on it he stood close behind me and commented directly in my ear "autographed by Erik, no doubt" without being disgustingly sarcastic. (And no. We didn't buy the clock.)

Ah—and finally, a personal note for Alyssa: what country and timezone are you in? When I got your review that said "Yay! Tomorrow is update day!" it was still Friday here. So... either you have a time machine... or you're on the other side of the world. For those of you who are looking forward to updates, they take place on Sundays in the United States. I'm in the central timezone of the US. Sometimes if I'm awake late on Saturday night (like tonight) I'll post at midnight RIGHT when it becomes Sunday or maybe even an hour early. Sometimes, I won't be able to and I'll have to post DURING the day on Sunday. But it won't be much earlier than that.

One last thing—would you believe I have posting anxiety after a week off? Seriously! I was as nervous tonight when the first review came in as I was back in March when I posted the first 700 words of this thing. I saw a review come in and I thought "I'm not going to read it in case it's bad" just like I thought back then. And then I couldn't resist the temptation and I clicked on it with my heart pounding going "Please don't say anything terrible, please don't say anything terrible, please don't say anything terrible!" Is that pathetic or WHAT?

**Standard Disclaimer: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Elizabeth's dress was the least of the problems the two encountered in arranging for a ceremony at the Church of the Madelaine. There was first the priest's insistence upon meeting with Elizabeth privately. There was the fact that Elizabeth attended church so infrequently since moving to Germany that providing the priest with a home parish proved awkward at best. There was the fact that Erik had provided the priest with his own variation on the musical themes of the liturgy—not in and of itself a problem—but that he wanted neither organist nor choir present. He had offered double the standard donation, then doubled that amount in the hopes of appeasing the priest who decided that if it meant that much to the couple he might be willing to conduct the complete mass without any wedding guests nor other congregants present, but still maintained that a bridegroom performing the music at his own wedding mass was unorthodox, even if not necessarily against church law. Of course, there would be no one there to witness it, he reasoned, but it would be awkward and unusual. Most importantly, he feared it would distract the man from his true purpose for being there. Even so, he had the greatest sympathy for the man in question and felt something within him inclined to agree to most anything if only the woman would show up this time.

He continued to waver back and forth on the matter nonetheless, wondering at the secrecy of the event. Weddings were to be joyful occasions involving family and friends. This man had informed him once that he had none of either, and he understood that it was very likely possible. But he also remembered the same man attempting to plan something similar not long prior and some very vicious rumors circulating regarding the young lady who had been named as the bride in that ordeal, so he entertained serious doubts about whether or not this wedding were to occur. He was, therefore, very surprised when the dark haired woman presented herself, seemingly timid but absolutely resolute in her desire to be wed to the man in question.

Elizabeth, for her part, was intimidated by the sheer size of the church. It was a beautiful day, and she had chosen to walk, though Erik offered (repeatedly) to drive her. He did not, however, offer to _walk _with her, so she strode down the street that early afternoon alone in the sunshine to the address Erik had given her. When she reached the structure, she nearly stopped dead in her tracks. _That_ structure is a _church_? she thought in awe. It looked as though it belonged in ancient Greece. It was enormous with Corinthian columns at least twenty meters tall surrounding it on all sides.

Elizabeth felt very small as she climbed the steps. She glanced up to peer at the pediment above but nearly lost her balance so instead she merely climbed the steps reluctantly, for she feared falling backward down them. She paused for breath then walked between the columns to the immense front door. She noted with unease as she passed them that she was scarcely as tall as the bases of the columns, and when she dared to look up at the ornate ceiling above her, she caught her breath. It's only architecture, she reassured herself, but it did little good. The building alone was overpowering. Pulling open the heavy door stepping from the bright light of the Paris street into the dark, cold interior of the church nearly overwhelmed her. She steadied herself and made her way forward towards the sanctuary, stopping at all the appropriate points to perform the rituals she'd been taught at an early age. Holy water... sign of the cross... she knew it by rote by now. Of course, she was doing this all for Erik, which seemed rather strange as she could hardly imagine Erik _attending_ church—not that there was anything _bad_ about him, just that he hadn't spoken of religion at all until marriage became an issue. It seemed he was more concerned with the outward appearance of what made a wedding a wedding than with the actual religious doctrine or worship of any kind. She, conversely, would have been pleased with a simple marriage by the magistrate, but Erik had composed a wedding mass, and Erik wished to see her in white—with orange blossoms—at the Church of the Madelaine. She heaved a heavy sigh and made her way down the aisle of the cathedral. It was certainly not the country church of her past, she thought, for even as she craned her neck all the way back, she could not see the top of the peak of the sanctuary. _Definitely_ not her little country church! Surely that should make her feel _less_ afraid—should it not?—for it was the congregation of that little country church that allowed all those terrible things to happen.

The place was immense. And beautiful. But terrifying. Elizabeth looked up at the domes above her, the arches beside her and the columns, like those outside, that repeated themselves down the center aisle of the sanctuary. She felt as though her insides were trembling and hoped her outsides were not. It was not difficult to imagine Erik choosing such a place considering what she knew of his tastes from the opera. Arches, frescoes, domes, immense marble statues... Ah, yes! Erik and his obsession with beauty! She sighed. So sad that perhaps he would never truly understand what beauty was, in spite of his apparent revelation at the conclusion of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She paused to admire the statues above the altar: a woman being lifted between two angels. Yes, Erik and his infatuation with angels! It made her sad, yet at the same moment, it calmed her fears slightly. Perhaps if she focused solely on those angels...

She was so intensely focused that she did not hear or see the kindly old priest as he approached her so she startled rather embarrassingly when at last she did notice him. He was past middle age, white haired and plump—certainly not her country priest, either, though he would have appeared more appropriate there than the tall gaunt fellow she'd once called Father years ago. She gave this Father a forced smile and explained the reason for her visit. He beamed at her saying, "Of course, of course," and led her from the sanctuary down a short hallway and into a little room on the left. He had been expecting her, he said, but he hadn't expected her to come in by way of the sanctuary and hadn't her fiancé told her where... never mind, she was here, and that was all that mattered and so forth. Had she not been so unnerved by the building itself, she might have noticed that although the priest's words stated that he had been expecting her, his expression clearly indicated his surprise. He had rather been expecting this time to be the same as last time—an event that never occurred. Fortunately, he was so immersed in the affairs of his parish that he did not realize exactly how _last time_ I had turned out. Without knowing any of this, however, Elizabeth found herself in a chair facing the priest and answering his questions.

* * *

Hours later when at last she returned to the Opera cellars, she found Erik pacing nervously in the parlor. She fully expected him to rush to her and hold her as though he had feared she would not return but instead he glared at her, seemingly angrily from beneath the black mask. Why was he wearing the mask again? "Erik, what's the matter?" she whispered.

He seemed to twitch without actually moving. His eyes bored into her. His voice was smooth and guarded. "Where have you been?"

She lowered her head and looked at him suspiciously. "With the priest Erik. As I told you. Are you well?"

"What should that matter," he asked bitterly.

It was too much. It was simply too much. She sunk into the nearest chair. "What is wrong now? Do you not even wish to hear how the visit to the priest went?"

"Badly, I imagine," he began, still angrily, but he could not maintain his distance for long. He crept to her chair and placed a hand upon it, not upon her. "I admit," he confessed, his tone now quieter and wavering slightly, "that I feared for a moment you might not return."

By his voice and his posture he had feared it far longer than a moment. "I always return!" she exclaimed, rising to him. "It simply took longer than we expected, my dearest. The priest had some concerns."

"The news is bad, then? Do not tell me," he said softly.

"Why do you do this Erik? Of course he said yes. What is your worry?" Though the priest had wholeheartedly agreed after hearing Elizabeth speak of her devotion to Erik, she had intended to ask him if he would consider a civil ceremony instead, for she still felt uncomfortable in the sanctuary of the church beneath the eyes of all those cold marble statues. Now she could say not a word of it now that she saw his distress when the thought there was a chance it would not happen. "He did complain that my fiancé is so seldom at mass, and by seldom, of course, he indicated he meant never. Your generous donations seem to have pleased him, but he thinks he's sees you all too infrequently."

She continued but not before he sarcastically interjected, "Well, there's a complaint I've not heard before."

"He's concerned to perform a ceremony for such as us when he is rather certain that neither of us has been to confession in what—years? decades?" (Truly, Elizabeth wondered, had Erik ever?) "But assuming we go through everything he asks of us before the ceremony, it will go as you planned. I rather think he might have said no entirely but for the fact that none of the other parishioners can possibly learn of it absurdity, as the whole ceremony will take place in secret." It did help some that no one from the parish—or in the city for that matter—would recognize Erik's real name and Elizabeth was entirely unknown. "It must be very early in the morning that day. And of course, he hopes to see us at mass in the future," here she made a face to show Erik that she was not any more pleased about the idea than he was—"and if there are any children—"

"There won't be." Erik's voice was a growl.

"Understood. But I told him that if there were—"

"Why did you not simply tell him there would not be?"

"Tell that to the priest, Erik?"

"Tell him there is something wrong with you. Better still, tell him there is something wrong with me. It would not even be a lie, after all. Surely—"

"_Stop_ it!" And he stopped, instantly at that, for her tone was so intense that it startled him and he looked at her in surprise then hung his head in shame. He had upset her—yet again!—when she had been trying to please him.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

"Done," came the reply, but they were both exhausted with tense emotion.

"There won't be," he said with finality, but softly. "If there weren't the concerns about their appearance, there would be the fact that they have a tendency to hate me." This last sounded as though it were uttered around an enormous lump in his throat.

That was certainly a thought worth exploring, she thought, but she didn't have the heart for it today. Erik's moods were beginning to wear her out. "He suggests," she continued "That we might consider inviting a few close friends. He says that it is far less likely that the marriage be challenged if there are witnesses."

"He shall witness it himself!" was Erik's tense reply.

"Yes, Erik, but—" she hesitated. "Might you not like to have Nadir present? He has been so kind to us both."

Erik made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort.

"Who then?"

Who indeed? There were a few people who found him tolerable, yes. The priest, for instance. Erik did not for a moment delude himself that it was because it was the man's job to love all God's creatures; he'd had enough experience with other so-called holy men to know that not all were so kind. The jeweler had never expressed any distaste for him, but that was a simple matter of money; Erik paid handsomely. He had a tendency to overpay anyone who treated him like a human being. That explained the banker's kindness as well. Nadir—well, there was no explaining Nadir, really. He was apparently just a good man, that was all. That girl Marcelle had been—well—_kind_ wasn't exactly the right word, and it didn't count for she hadn't seen his face. The entire company claimed to adore him, in fact, but none of them had seen him, so they could not be counted either. Two had seen him: Christine and Anton. Christine remained an enigma; while he relentlessly pursued her, she shrunk from him in fear, only to come back when he no longer needed her so badly and claimed to desire him. No. He couldn't have Christine near him as he married Elizabeth. And lastly Anton. He, too, it seemed was a good man, like Nadir. If he were to choose two individuals—not friends, just people—to accompany him to the church, perhaps these two men would be they. But he _wasn't_ choosing two people. He was going alone. The marriage would be between just his wife and himself; the wedding would be as well. But the train of thought had led him to Anton, and thinking of Anton reminded him.

"What happened to you the day Anton came here?"

Her eyes grew wide as she told him she thought they had been over this already. "Nothing happened, Erik. I'm fine. You... you merely shouted at me." It was wrong to begin a marriage by lying to him before the wedding even took place and she knew it, so she considered how to tell him about the rest when he interrupted her.

"Not with me! Not about that. Before that. In the passageway by the gate when you first saw Anton. You acted... very strangely." This had come out simple and forthright, but as he remembered the expression on her face, he grew more tender, moved closer, touched her. "You looked afraid."

"I was just unnerved for a moment, that's all. You had spoken about unpleasant surprises and unwanted guests and then someone arrived. You can imagine my apprehension."

He considered this a moment. "Perhaps," he said at last. "But you pushed me away as well. You were still angry about what I had said?"

"I was merely startled to hear you change languages so abruptly," she tried.

"You locked the door even in my presence."

She heaved a heavy sigh and he suspected from the sound of it—for it was a sound he often made himself—that she did not want to tell him enough to satisfy his curiosity. Strangely, though, it didn't bother him at the moment. She had returned yet again, and she still planned to marry him. His fear and anger had been a momentary lapse of his faith in her; he was nearly certain now that she would not suddenly depart, so there would be time enough later to learn everything about her. He sighed with realization and something nearing contentment, and brought his hands to her waist.

"Whatever the concern," he said at last, "Please remember that when one looks as I do, one can hardly be discerning when it comes to languages and nationalities of those who would call themselves friends."

Instead of inciting an argument, this served to decrease the tension on her face, if only a little. "As long as your friend feels similarly," she said with a forced smile, and he accepted it without question.

It was the wedding, he decided. It had caused him excessive mental anguish the last time, and amazingly, even when the woman was willing, it was an emotionally taxing event. Surely they would both be absolutely relieved when the nasty business of getting married was finished and they were free to simply _be_ married, whatever that meant. He continued to wonder.

* * *

**Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** Well, it's been a week since we've talked, so I can't wait to hear from you, whether by review or PM. I've missed you all so much. When I get home from work, there's nothing to click on because naturally, without posting a chapter, I can't expect comments, you know?

**Timing Note****:** This chapter is just about an hour early (it won't be Sunday for another hour) but I figured better to post before midnight than to wait until noon tomorrow since I'll probably sleep really late considering the lack of sleep I've gotten up to now. I hope the once a week deal works. I have NOTHING of what I'm supposed to post next Sunday, so I guess I have a week to come up with something, eh? It's TERRIBLE not to be able to write as often as I like. It's just absolutely distressing.

**NEW NOTE(S) ADDED TUESDAY NIGHT:**  
1) I've heard that something is wrong with FFN and it's keeping folks from reviewing. I don't know if that means the stories I reviewed didn't have their reviews show up or what, but that's life. If it happened to you, I hope you'll come back and tell me later what you thought or email me instead.  
2) I considered posting a little bonus chapter tonight. I also considered throwing out the whole "Sunday" thing and going back to "whenever I can." I got all excited and was about to post when my FFN screen blanked out entirely and quit working. Now I'm 1/2 asleep so all I can do is send this message.  
3) I'm tired beyond belief. If I feel "normal" again on Wednesday I'll try to throw out a bonus chapter on Wednesday or Thursday. No promises, though, okay? Sorry.


	117. Chapter 117: Jointif

**Author's Note****: **First and foremost, I've decided this once a week business is _not_ working. I mean, technically, it did _"work."_ You all knew to check on Sunday, so everyone clicked in to read within a few hours of posting. There were 10 reviews rather quickly and I was thrilled. **But****...** I missed you guys. A _lot_. I have to find a way to post more often or something. I don't know how, but I've got to find a way. I did write ahead a bit on the upcoming portions. Maybe we can go twice a week? Sunday and Wednesday or something? I don't know. I'll work on it, how's that?

Another thing. We're almost done. I don't know if I'm going to be writing anything else, but just in case, if you're using alerts you might want to change it from story to author because this will be over soonish.

**Dedication:** When POTO was published in it's entirety and bound (that happened after it was published serially) Leroux dedicated it "To my good old brother Jo." My brother (the one who is supposed to be working on the plushie project with me) is also named Joe, though it's spelled that way, with an "e." Even though he's not reading, I had the sudden urge to do this so...

This chapter is dedicated to my good old brother Joe.

And I hope the bonus chapter makes everyone happy, especially Ash, Hot4Gerry, and Kelly Melly, who all requested it. (There may have been more of you than that... so it's for all of you, I guess!)

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

In the days remaining until the date the priest had determined Erik replaced Elizabeth's diamond ring and procured a plain band for the ceremony. Elizabeth acquired her dress at last and stored it in an unused dressing room which Nadir had, at Erik's request, had someone fashion into a bedroom of sorts for her so that Erik might not see her the morning of the wedding. She had her doubts and fears about that, for his reaction when she was gone too long at the church had brought to mind the way he had suddenly snapped the afternoon the young actor had visited. She blamed herself in part, for had she not been so absorbed in the boy's accent, she might have noticed Erik's distress. What would she do if it happened again? she worried. Though for the most part, she spent the time enjoying Erik on his good days and being reassuring on the bad ones.

Once more Elizabeth dared to broach the subject of wedding guests with Erik but soon after decided it was best left as a private matter between the two of them and the priest. One afternoon while Erik was out she confided to Nadir that she was concerned not about the marriage, but about the wedding, specifically logistics of getting to the church in the tremendous gown, especially since Erik insisted upon the tradition of not seeing her the day of the wedding. She couldn't very well march up the street with her train over her arm at such an early hour of the morning even if it was only three blocks. Nor could she drive herself, for though she had long ago learned to manage horses, it wouldn't be possible dressed so. From Nadir's surprised expression she guessed that Erik had said not a word to him about the wedding, and while this was not correct, it wasn't far from the truth. Erik had instructed Nadir to have someone prepare a room for Elizabeth and that was all. He shared nothing of any consequence. Nadir, however, seemed not the least concerned about what might amount to a surprise wedding and instead simply offered to have a carriage ready and a few ladies to help her make herself ready. So pleased was she that she could have thrown her arms around the man, but remembering the tenderness of Erik's emotions and his tendency toward misunderstandings, she merely nodded her thanks. She slipped below for one last night, for the following night she would be sleeping above in her secretly prepared room at the end of a hall that was not regularly in use and in which her dress was already stored.

On this last night before that night, Erik was tremendously quiet and dimmed the lights to retire early to the sofa in the parlor. Elizabeth sat nearby and attempted to interact with him, but to no avail. He merely turned from her and wrapped one arm about his head. She temporarily debated the merits of pulling that arm away and forcing him to look her in the eye but weighed that against the fact that he was on the sofa rather than inside the coffin. After tomorrow night, there would be so many other nights in which to prevent him from slipping away into himself this way. No doubt _after tomorrow night_ was what he worried about this night anyway and words would be of little use. She placed a kiss upon his hand and slipped into her room where she lay awake the better part of the night.

When she could bear to lay still no longer, she stood in her doorway and listened to the sound of his breathing, taking comfort in the fact that it was quiet and even, not at all like the nights in the hotel when she had listened to him wheeze or the other nights when she had listened to him fighting tears. It would be all right, she told herself again and again. He would be fine. Everything was going to turn out well. Tomorrow night, she would sleep alone for what she expected would be the last time. She smiled momentarily in the darkness and slipped back to the bed but alas, she did not sleep.

* * *

The following night she slept soundly despite the narrow bed that was also strangely cold. She comforted herself with the idea that future nights would be spent with Erik beside her, and somehow, despite the chill of his hands, his presence beside her warmed her. She spent the moments before she fell asleep joyously reminding herself that soon—very soon; the very next day in fact—she could lay beside him nightly without reservation or concern.

Sadly, beneath her, Erik spent the night in confusion and woe. He cursed himself for insisting as he had upon the church, which had so delayed the process. He assured himself that this one last day of waiting would be time enough for her to leave forever. He further cursed himself for his insistence upon tradition—specifically the one that said he would not see her this night, for now if she chose to leave he would have no opportunity to change her mind or prevent her from going. Even if the reverse were true, he had no way to reassure himself that she would stay because he could not go to her and ask. It was possible, actually. He could go to a place outside her room and speak to her through the wall easily enough, but he would not. It was the same as seeing her. He would simply suffer until the morning.

He agonized over the fact that this time he would not only be abandoned at the last possible moment, but that this time he would likely be standing in the church waiting with the priest when she did not arrive. In addition to dejection there would also be the mortification of being jilted twice and having to face the priest. The priest had seen him, naturally; he could not marry a man without knowing his identity for certain. Tomorrow, they would be standing side by side, both anxiously checking their watches. Then there would be embarrassment in addition to the pain of loneliness. No doubt the priest would try to comfort him. He doubted his ability to remain in control of both his emotions and his actions. Perhaps he should instead simply remain where he was. When neither of them arrived, the priest might conclude the couple had simply eloped. Yes, that would be best. It wouldn't do to have the priest know this had happened now twice. It would raise questions eventually and perhaps the way he had behaved the first time would come to light. It might be suspected he had done the same again. Perhaps he would be sought out, taken to trial, or worse yet, simply locked away without a chance to speak a word in his own defense. Once that occurred other crimes would be exposed. Knowing humanity for what it was, he was certain that things he had not done would be pinned upon him, and he would die surely die for it all. It would be a pity to die now, when at last it had seemed for a brief period that there was something for which _to live._

* * *

Tuesday morning arrived and the ladies Nadir had procured to assist Elizabeth arrived as expected. The carriage arrived on schedule and Elizabeth departed on schedule, radiant, if a bit tired and anxious. Nadir, who had paced in the hallway as nervously as if it had been his own wedding while Elizabeth was made ready, found himself with nothing to do and, without considering the reasons why, descended to Erik's home.

* * *

The reader cannot scarcely begin to imagine Father Benoît's surprise when the lady arrived, veiled and unescorted and stood anxiously in his presence awaiting the arrival of her groom. These were nuptials he had long worried might go awry, but to have the _gentleman_ strangely absent in this case put him beyond consternation. After a goodly length of time the bride walked the length of the aisle to the doors of the church and looked out on to the street. It was scarcely dawn and not a soul was stirring in the street. Even so, she thought, turning from the door, one wouldn't see Erik under such conditions. He would simply materialize within the church and turn to her as though he had been there all along, the only sign that he had done anything mischievous the slight amber glow of his eyes as he blinked, otherwise innocently at her. No doubt this was one last test of her devotion or one last offer to let set her free forever. She was getting rather tired of those, however, and had hoped that this day marked the last of them. Why then was Erik not here?

She paced back up the aisle of the church, infinitely faster than she would have if it had been her procession down the aisle. It was quite a long aisle at that, and she hated that she would have to walk down it twice now. Back beneath the angels once again she sunk into a seat in the front and gazed at the priest helplessly.

"It is not the first time a bridegroom has been late," he said softly.

Surely it was not the first time a bridegroom had been _absent_, either. She noticed that he did not reassure her that he would come and wondered what he knew that she did not. She considered the situation. She had no reason to suspect Erik would change his mind but to spare her some imagined agony of being married to him. Surely if that were the reason he would not leave her standing here like this but would instead tell her. If they were not to be married, he could have spoken with her this morning. If he could not face her, he could have told Nadir. At the very least, he could have left a note, but he had done none of those things when he had suddenly disappeared from the house on the edge of the city, either. Perhaps there had been some terrible misunderstanding again. Perhaps Wilhelm... but no, it wasn't possible. Erik scarcely went above at all, and Wilhelm did not know his way below. Besides, it was unthinkable that Wilhelm could locate him. Even if he could, he did not know what he looked like. Then her heart sank; she had described him very accurately once in her notes. She had used a cryptic shorthand she had developed years earlier, but Wilhelm was familiar with it. She cursed her own stupidity for writing anything about Erik at all and for not destroying the notes when she realized her feelings for him.

* * *

Without fully comprehending the reasons for his own actions, Nadir approached Erik's door as he had on the night he'd presented him with the gifts from the cast, and knocked. He was relieved when there was no response at all, but something instinctive drove him to knock again. When there was no response, he turned to go, but a sudden feeling of dread drove him back to bang still harder upon the door. After all, he reassured himself, Erik was at the church, probably already in the process of getting married. He need never know that his former enemy turned reluctant caretaker then hopeful friend threw himself upon his door with an insane fury for reasons unbeknownst even to his own mind.

But then he heard a noise within and at last Erik opened the door, disheveled but wearing the black mask which he had placed upon his face solely for Nadir's benefit as he leaped from his place upon the couch. Nadir had the sensation of déjà vu as the door opened with a rush of air and Erik peered out at him, recognized him, and was instantly disappointed.

"What are you doing here?" Nadir cried out in frustration.

Erik glared at him. _I live here._ He declined to remind Nadir of the horrors of the treatment that brought him to hide from the eyes of men five levels beneath the ground upon which humanity walked. He said nothing, merely stared from eyes as empty as they had been during those months leading up to the opening of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Nadir hesitated but a moment.

"She waits for you at the church, Erik," he said at last, impatiently. For a moment there was no reaction at all, then he sensed rather than saw Erik sigh heavily and roll his eyes upward. "Come," he insisted pushing past the once Opera Ghost into his dark home and plodding directly for the funerary room he now knew housed Erik's wardrobe. Erik followed him in disbelief and grudgingly provided the key. That Nadir knew he had failed to appear at his own wedding was cause for only mild surprise; the Persian had always closely scrutinized his actions. That Elizabeth was at the church was cause for only slightly more moderate surprise; she had not given him cause to doubt. His doubts were a result only of his overactive and self-critical mind. But the fact that he was traipsing around his own abode in despondence while his bride waited for him at the Church of the Madelaine—the fact that his wedding was about to take place but for his own absence, brought on by his own ridiculous self-loathing and fears—was utterly unbearable.

It did not take him long to be dressed appropriately. His face, however, was another matter entirely. There was nothing he could do to make it presentable, so he merely slipped on a false nose under his mask for even though the priest had insisted upon seeing his face, he had not let him see him in all his horrific glory and still did not intend to.

He allowed Nadir to escort him to the church but left him in the carriage standing at the curb. Late as he was, he should have entered the church at a run, but so dismayed was he at the fact that the event was to take place at all that he rather wandered up the steps like one who has been long lost.

* * *

She found herself before the priest before she realized she'd even gotten to her feet. "Please," she told him as though he were holding her prisoner here in the dark church "Let me go and find him. Something terrible must have happened to keep him from arriving."

The priest smiled at her. "The moment you leave he will arrive, and then I will have to reassure him until you return. And how long might it be before you return? If you do not find him, you will continue to search. It will be time for morning mass—the mass the congregation will attend—and he will still be here. It would displease him greatly. Wait here."

Elizabeth bit her lip and paced again. It was not long before she began to cry. Even if Erik did arrive now, it would be a disaster of a wedding. He had so insisted upon everything's being perfect—her dress, her veil, the orange blossoms, his music... Now her dress already showed wrinkles from her repeated sitting and standing and sitting again. Her gloves were lined from twisting her hands nervously and soiled at the tips from wiping her eyes, which were surely red and puffy by now. What a blessing Erik had insisted upon the veil that covered all that! And to think he worried for his own appearance!

She froze in the center aisle of the church. Nothing would keep Erik from this day except perhaps the thought that she would not be here. She kicked the heel of her shoe against the floor beneath the tiers of her dress. They should have arrived together. She should have insisted. No matter. She was going back for him. Regular morning mass could come and go. They would be married during mass, after mass, by the mayor alone if need be, but they would be married. If she had to simply assemble two witnesses and declare her devotion to him privately, she would do so; standing here helplessly was unthinkable. She was leaving, whether the priest approved or not. She was gathering up the folds of the dress and preparing to dash back to the Opera on foot if need be when she heard the sound of the door.

Erik stood just inside the door leaning heavily upon one of the massive pillars. She let out a little cry when she saw him and rushed forward. He drew himself from the pillar and managed to stumble to her so that they met midway up the aisle. He took her gloved hands and, pushing his mask upward just a little, kissed them and kissed them murmuring, "Forgive me! Forgive me!" between kisses. She could do little more than cry and nod. Father Benoît stood a short distance away observing silently. Though it was contrary to his usual custom, he had never observed the couple together before. Now that he did, he realized that this interaction was far more telling than any contrived conversation in his office could have been and all his hesitation about the union fell away.

* * *

The mass went not at all according to plan. At Father Benoît's gentle reminder, Erik removed the mask and tucked it into his pocket keeping his eyes upon the floor as long as possible. He had realized only that morning Elizabeth had not seen him in the false nose, and he wondered if it she would think he looked ridiculous. He had, after all, heard what the people in the streets said when we went out this way, and he knew it didn't bring him anywhere close to looking normal. When at last he dared to glance at her, her expression was mixed but a sort of pleased surprise seemed to dominate her features. He wondered what exactly pleased her and let it bother him more than his rational mind knew he should, especially at this moment, for there she stood in white, fully willing to marry him. Marrying him, actually, for the priest was already speaking, though Erik had heard not a word.

He found himself utterly unprepared for the mass in its entirety. The vows, the liturgy, even his own music all felt entirely surreal as he stood there scarcely imagining that _he actually stood there_. Later he found that his hands trembled over the keys of the organ and the sound of it as it echoed in the vast sanctuary startled him as he never could have anticipated. When he sang, he felt as though his voice shook, and though it was something neither the priest nor Elizabeth was like to notice, it unnerved him enough that he fixated on it and it distracted him from everything else. He had entirely forgotten the matter of the ring and was grateful that Nadir had thrust it into his pocket as they rushed for the carriage. So distracted had he been that he hadn't even whispered his gratitude as the Persian fairly pushed him out of the carriage at the steps of the church. Now he held the ring in his bony fingers and found that his hands shook as he reached for hers and the ring slipped away and bounced across the floor leaving him to retrieve it in utter humiliation. He returned to find her smiling with a look of conspiratory bemusement, however, so he tried to ignore the mishap and move on with the ceremony. He did not learn until much later that she recognized the dropping of the ring as yet one more superstition and was certain he had done it purposely "for luck."

Having previously delighted in the liturgical music, he now wished he had striven to shorten the mass where possible, for he no longer felt the desire either to perform or listen. Having previously pondered the vows over a length of time and memorized every word, he found he was grateful for the priest's reading them line by line aloud and allowing him to repeat, for though he had known them by rote for years, his mind was suddenly blank, his heart beating wildly, his palms sweating and his voice strange and quavering. Certainly in his life he had experienced fear and anxiety on many occasions; even joy was not entirely unfamiliar, but the feelings he experienced on this day were such as he had never felt before, for he found himself incoherent and inarticulate in ways that were entirely foreign to him. Such hebetude had never possessed him in all his life, and upon lifting her veil he scarcely noticed the orange blossoms about which he had made such a fuss. As he folded the tulle back over her head he lost himself in her eyes and wholly forgot that he was officially permitted to kiss her.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging:** Hi. I can't believe I just posted on Tuesday after I told you once a week on Sunday. I guess that demonstrates I have just as much patience as you all, eh? I know FFN went down for a bit, but when it's up again please post some thoughts for me here. No joke. Encouragement helps me write more often.


	118. Chapter 118: After

**Author's Note:** OMG! I went to dictionarydotcom today and would you believe the word of the day is fop? I love it!

Okay. On to more serious things. I am posting this a day early by special request. There's a small chance I might be able to post again tomorrow, but in case I don't, consider this the Sunday post just up early. If you want a two for one special, I need to hear from you. I'd really love to hear from twenty of you this time if possible.

Let's see... other news. My boss saw my Erik plushie on my bookshelf and asked if he was a vampire. I said "No. That's the Phantom of the Opera." There was a long uncomfortable silence and then we went back to business. Erik was indignant and agreed that it's okay if I seam rip his red and black cape off if it's going to cause that type of confusion.

I received an invitation to join musebunnydotcom, so I did. I saw a few of you are already over there. I look forward to seeing how it plays out. I put some poetry up on deviant art with my photography. It's not related to Phantom, though, so, you know...

I guess that's about it for this week.

**Standard Disclaimer: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

They exited the church and made their way down the steps so wrapped up in one another they scarcely noticed the spectacular view down Rue Royale, to Place de la Concorde, across la Seine to l'Assemblee Nationale. As they climbed into the waiting coach Erik could scarcely believe it had happened at all. The ceremony, which he had been certain was to take hours and hours, seemed to be over in mere minutes. It was a muddle in his mind of things going not exactly as he had hoped but with Elizabeth and Father Benoît proceeding calmly forward as though all that mattered was the outcome. He couldn't help but find himself swept along by their forward motion before he had a moment to be mortified by the deviations from his fantasy. Ultimately, they were correct. All that mattered was the outcome, for despite the planning he'd put into the event, he could already scarcely remember the order of the service.

It _had_ happened though, he was certain of that. He had just entered the coach from the dazzling sunlight glaring off Rue Royale. The brightness was so intense he could scarcely see, squinting in the early-morning light. Had it not been for the afternoons spent on the rooftop, which allowed his eyes to adjust once again to the light of day, he would have been debilitated entirely and had to have had her lead him to the coach like a blind man. Before that he had hurried down the steps of the Church of the Madelaine, a dark-haired and white-clad woman beside him tightly holding his hand. Moments earlier he had faced her in the cool dark sanctuary. He had kissed her under the gaze of the angels and Mary Magdalene.

Unless it were all a dream. Indeed, it felt surreal at that—the way the mass blurred together into a tangle of voices and words, symbolic gestures and actions so that he could not be certain what happened first and what next, and then he was kissing her. Yes, he _had_ tasted all the happiness in the world.

Surely, in just another moment he would awaken and find it had all been a dream and Elizabeth still in England or Germany or wherever it was that she'd gone. Worse still, he'd awaken to find she had never existed at all and he was still lying in his coffin waiting to die after having sent the other one away. It had seemed an eternity in this dream world in which there was a woman who dared to love him, and yet he had been inside the church only a moment. Only a moment, though it surely _must _have been hours. With the carriage door closed the woman beside him lifted her veil and pressed her face against his in a passionate kiss. He put his arms around her waist and squeezed. If I _am_ dreaming, let me never wake, he thought. But it could not be a dream, he reasoned. His dreams had never been so _bright_. Indeed, had they not always been terrible?

As they reached the Opera, however, his doubt returned. Entering through a secret hole in the foundation would be unwise now that the city was awake and teamed about them. Going in through the main entrance was the only logical choice, but there was the chance they would encounter someone. Of course, mornings at the Opera were quiet. It was why he had chosen early mornings for Christine's lessons seemingly years ago. Nadir might linger, but he would be sure to give them space. With Elizabeth now a permanent fixture, he might even move home to his flat again at last. Other than him, it was unlikely they would encounter anyone except perhaps some overzealous cleaning staff. If they did, they might give them a second glance dressed as they were, but before they could remark upon it or be certain what they had seen, he and Elizabeth would vanish below. There were secret passageways everywhere, even in the grand foyer. A housekeeper might step away to call another and when she returned the mysterious bridegroom and his lovely bride would had disappeared as though into the air. _The Ghost has a lady-friend?_ he could hear Monsieur Moncharmin saying incredulously to Madame Giry that afternoon in the office. Yes, at last he did. More than that—the Ghost has _a wife_. Though he was, in fact, not much of a ghost anymore.

Still, it was madness to think that he would not be _remembered_ as the Opera Ghost. He would be recognized as such surely, if he were seen. He had been dressed in exactly this same manner the evening of Debienne and Poligny's retirement dinner party, and though he had done nothing to terrify anyone—merely stood among the crowd in the foyer to listen to Sorelli's speech!— little Jammes had shrieked _The Ghost! The Opera Ghost! _in a manner of unspeakable terror. Perhaps occasions such as these were the worst for him—moments when he made no effort to frighten anyone at all but found himself the source of terror nonetheless. No, it would be madness to think he could simply return to the Opera with his bride and be greeted as any man should on his wedding day. It would be enough if they could simply slip below undetected. If they were to be seen and then no longer seen, everyone should talk of _two_ opera ghosts ever after. It was not at all as he had planned the day of his wedding. One small stroke of luck, however, was that no one _did_ see him as he led his new wife through the door, across the foyer and through a secret passageway.

"From whom are we hiding, Erik?" she whispered.

"Everyone," was his near-silent reply as he wrapped his left arm around her waist and with his right took both her small hands in his. He led her in his fashion all the way to the threshold of his humble cellar abode, where he hesitated to scoop her into his arms. She'd seemed so independent; he worried that if he expected her to be too much like other women, perhaps she would be—and then, would she still love him? But she was waiting expectantly it seemed, perhaps even wondering why after honoring all other traditions, he hesitated at this tone. When at last he lifted her, she giggled and looked down to make sure he stepped over the threshold on the correct foot.

Setting her on her feet in the foyer he looked at her helplessly. "What shall we do now?" he asked her at last. He had been focused so intently first on the wedding and then on getting below that he had not really considered what came next.

"What do you wish to do?" Her eyes sparkled in a way that made him wonder what she anticipated.

"What would anyone else do?" he asked her at last.

The look upon her face revealed that she was thinking of closed doors and privacy, but instead she said casually, "Some dine with friends and relatives, but as we invited no one to the mass, it hardly seems possible."

He nodded. No, it wasn't possible. And he couldn't think of a soul alive with whom he'd wish to have intrude at this moment.

"Some go away on a trip," she continued. It was merely an item on a list. She was already considering what else husbands and wives might do that first day between the wedding morning and the wedding night and intended to list aloud everything that occurred to her, but she stopped here at the look on his face, which was one of profound sadness.

"I know," he said softly, looking at the floor.

"What is it, love?"

"I know that," he said again. "But travel." He paused. "Travel has often been difficult."

It was both true and false. Traveling in the fashion everyone else did would likely prove problematic he suspected, but he couldn't be certain, as his apprehensions had never allowed him to make the attempt. Instead he shied away from comfortable inns where others would look upon him when he traveled alone and remained with the others when he had traveled with the freak show. Traveling alone had advantages and disadvantages all its own. He could go where he wished, but there was no protection of a group. He had stayed, sometimes with permission and sometimes in secret, in places such as stables, barns, stockyards and outbuildings. He'd been chased out of numerous areas before they'd even seen his face simply because he was trespassing. The few times he had been seen clearly he'd usually been left alone until morning. He learned quickly after the first time he was caught at daybreak to always depart before first light. He walked less-traveled roads and hitched rides with scurrilous characters, bribing them with gold or silver for their silence. No one honest trusted a man in a mask, so the only companions he had were those who could not be trusted themselves. They would steal from him if given the chance, so he mustn't give it to them, and they would easily reveal his presence for a greater sum than he had paid, so he must always be prepared to give more if necessary. It had become second nature, so by the time he had come to Paris, it was not longer something he could truly call difficult.

It was decidedly _not _an appropriate way to travel with a lady, however; that was absolutely certain. It was undoubtedly not the type of thing one did to his bride on their honeymoon. He sighed heavily. Already the joy he'd experienced when she kissed him dwindled away. He considered: he had everything he had ever dreamed of and far more than he had ever expected. The Opera was subject to his sole control. He had at last a living wife—and not just one who had grudgingly assented but one who loved and desired him! It was like being handed the entire world, and yet it did not fill him with unending joy. It did not even provide him with a sense of normalcy that was occasionally pervaded with joy. Instead his brief moments of joy interrupted an existence that continued to be miserable rather than merely dreary.

He was dragged yet again from the depths of his despair, though, this time when she seized both his hands and squeezed them tightly. "Forget what everyone else does," she insisted. "I haven't any desire to invite anyone over today, and I've had enough travel to last me a lifetime. Why should we need to go anywhere? We shall be so happy together here."

He led her to the parlor and sat beside her on the sofa and leaned against her. They would be so happy together here, she said. He would believe her. He closed his eyes and put his face against her neck to feel the softness of her skin, drew away suddenly and cast off the false nose which pressed awkwardly against his face when he tried to get close to her, then returned to his previous position. He sighed. We shall be so happy together... he rolled the words over and over in his mind, trying to make them his own. Happiness was a concept he scarcely understood. He was content for the moment that they were together, alone, and untormented by others.

In the end, they spent the day of their wedding in the same manner in which they had spent the days leading up to it. They sat quietly in the parlor, he played the piano, she prepared a lunch and they ate together in the modest kitchen. Later they took Erik's secret route to the roof, sat in the gardens and stared out over the city. But at last it was evening and then nighttime, and at last time to retire.

It was a moment that he had both dreaded and anticipated for weeks on end and which before that he had never considered for he had known it to be utterly impossible. Now, confronted with the possibility that 'impossible' had not been the correct description, he was filled with a dozen terrible fears at once. Perhaps many men fear an inability to perform adequately on their wedding nights. Such a fear could not even begin to enter Erik's mind, however, so many other more prominent fears were already congregated there pushing each other about, vying for space.

There was the fear that at the last possible moment the gentle creature beside him would suddenly turn cold with fear and draw away, throwing him to the depths of despair once again. There was a separate but related fear that this would happen not at the last possible moment but instead _a few moments later_, and it would be _too late _and he would have permanently and irrevocably soiled her. There was the fear that in the morning she would hate him for what he had done to her and its close relative the fear that in the morning others would come for him insisting that he had forced himself upon her, using for evidence the ugliness of his face, the loveliness of the woman, and that simple logic that such a creature would never willingly give herself over to _such a creature_. There was the fear that she would begin to cry. Perhaps that was the worst. It was a vision before his eyes every time he blinked: hovering over her, looking down into her eyes, and her face contorting from one of love into tears and even—loathing.

There were other fears as well—fears about himself. He knew he looked terrible. Yes, there was the matter of his face, which she claimed not merely to have gotten past but to _love_! There could be no explaining that, so he would have to simply believe her or not, and he tried to believe her—he truly did. There were his hands, of which they had spoken on opening night of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She had kissed his fingertips and held her hands close to her. _They absolutely do not_, she had told him, when he raised the issue of their smelling like death. The combination of seeing his work performed, of having been so close to death, of having Marcelle kiss him in that way, of hearing Elizabeth say that she would marry him, of hiding in that horrid closet—it had all combined to make him laugh like a madman and now he wished he had spoken with her more seriously about his hands. Why did Christine say it if it was not true? Was Elizabeth certain it _truly_ was not correct? Could she, then, bear the thought of those hands touching her, not just on her face or her own hands, but _everywhere_? Here the fears fell away for a moment as a chill shot through him and he shivered with anticipation at the thought of running those hands down the length of her body, of slipping her nightgown gently off her shoulders, of—of—of... But it was not just his hands and his face but _the rest of him_ for while he carefully removed her nightgown her fingers would undoubtedly stray to his clothing...

He cringed inwardly remembering the shame he felt beneath the thin sheet in the Louis-Philippe room when he had awakened after his ordeal in the torture chamber and realized that he was entirely disrobed with her in the room. It had been agony lying there, knowing that she was inches away and he _displayed in all his hideous glory_ as he used to say in the days of the shows at Nijni Novgorod. He hadn't even had a moment to consider how she had gotten him from the torture chamber to the bed before the presence in the room had made itself known to be Nadir but as he thought back on it now, surely someone had carried him. He couldn't quite determine if he was glad it was Nadir, if it would have been more or less humiliating had it been Elizabeth who pulled him from the contraption.

No, he _could _determine it. Yes, it would have been, for certain, more humiliating had it been she. It would have been far more humiliating for _Elizabeth _to see him like that. And now, she _would_ see him. No, he wouldn't be near death due to his own stupidity, but perhaps that made it even worse. He'd be entirely coherent; he'd be conscious of everything that occurred. He shivered again, this time with a shameful fear.

He should stop thinking about it. He knew that he was merely tormenting himself as he had taught himself to do long ago to prevent his hopes from ever reaching heights from which the fall might be dangerous. It was something he'd done intentionally toward self-preservation, and as it was not necessary this night, it would be best if he could stop. It had become habit, however. In fact, it had become more than mere habit. It had become the only way in which is mind functioned. He tried to stop. The more he tried, the faster the thoughts came. He could visualize lowering himself onto her body, his protruding ribs pushing into her soft flesh in ways that would likely hurt her. He imagined what it must feel like to wrap one's arms around a sack of bones, to have those bones pressing against one's flesh. No. It would not be a pleasant evening for his gentle bride, no matter how much she loved him or how much she wanted this act. He flushed with humiliation and trembled.

"Dearest?" she turned to him, an expression of worry upon her kind face. "Are you feeling well?" And she wrapped her arms around him, rubbing frantically at his scrawny arms as though to warm him. She touched him on the forehead and on the cheek with her hands, then put her cheek against his. "It's best we get to bed, love," she said softly. Ah, but it was the very thing he had been dreading. "Come," she said simply, and when he hesitated, "At once," and she pulled him by his hands to the Louis-Philippe room.

She laid his pajamas on the bed and entered the bathroom. When she emerged she left the room and returned to the kitchen for a few moments before entering again. She didn't look at him, as though she knew he did not wish her to. When she left again, he understood what she expected of him and quickly dressed for sleeping and slipped into the bed. When she entered again she asked if he were warm enough and when he did not respond added additional blankets that she had apparently found somewhere in the house. She crawled into the bed beside him without extinguishing the lamp and pressed herself against him. "Are you ill?" she whispered. He murmured something that did not provide her with an answer, and she sighed softly. Then she put out the lamp and put her head upon his shoulder and her arm around him. "Rest then," she said. "There is always tomorrow." Yes. There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow he would likely suffer through the entire scenario again. Erik dreaded tomorrow.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging:** Hey all. Lots of comments equals another chapter right away. I know it's Labor Day weekend so some folks might be away, but if you're there and reading, please leave a comment. If enough folks do, I'll post again tomorrow!

PS: I could use some help with the title for this one. A one-word title would follow my pattern.


	119. Chapter 119: Bliss

**Author's Note****:** Sorry to be posting LATE on a Sunday rather than early on Sunday and also for having not posted a special early chapter. What happened was that I had written a chapter 119 previously but was waiting to post it for a few days to allow everyone time to catch up. Then one morning I drove to work without any music on to clear my head, and this new version of the chapter came to me quite suddenly out of nowhere, and honestly, it's quite a lot better than the original version. I would have posted EARLIER on Sunday, but my father was visiting all weekend, and I only get to see him once or twice a year (and it's also my husband's birthday!) so here it is, late Sunday, but certainly better late than never. I hope the content makes up for the long wait; I hope you enjoy it immensely. I warn you in advance it's not my usual type of stuff. I was a bit out of my element on this one, so... you know.

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

**Special Message for Ash (and Alyssa)****:** Where do you want me to put this picture you keep asking for? I don't have your email address and images can't be posted to FFN. Tell me where and I'll send it.

**Special Message for Rappleyea:** Please send me an email soon to let me know all is okay and the hurricanes didn't get you.

* * *

Erik slept.

Erik _dreamed_.

Over and over again, he married Elizabeth. He watched the ceremony from every angle. This time, the mass went as he had always hoped. Now he was somehow able to conduct the music without leaving her side; the music played as though he himself played it, yet he had not to step away from his position before the priest and beside his bride. Here the mass was seamless and he, graceful; the ring obediently stayed between his fingers until he slid it onto hers. This time he certainly did not forget to kiss her and she returned it passionately even there before the priest, who allowed it to continue far longer than any priest outside a dream would ever do. He felt a yearning within; he clutched her tightly and guided her from the church, and suddenly they were at the Opera once again and everyone was there. _Everyone._

Messieurs Debienne and Poligy as well as Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin were among the many smiling faces in the crowd, as were Messieurs Fournier and LeBlanc who were presently thought of as managers since there were two of them and they were well-dressed professional-looking gentlemen who handled routine daily nonsense without affecting the production much at all. None of the managers complained bitterly about extorted money or demanding notes but instead wished him hearty congratulations with firm handshakes and kind smiles.

All the current company was present as well those from the past, and by no means were they only the ones of which Erik heartily approved. La Sorelli was present and, as ever, surrounded by male admirers and young aspiring ballerinas. La Carlotta was present, head held high with a proud arrogance, but even she offered him a close-lipped smile and a brief nod of her pretty head. Young Christine was there, of course, as was handsome Anton, but so was Raoul the Comte de Chagny for he had long been a fixture since his brother started bringing him, even before he had rediscovered Christine. Strangely, the man beside him, who looked like an older version of Raoul himself, was probably that brother—the brother who was supposed to be dead. Little Giry stood sulkily by while Little Jammes pirouetted about gleefully and both their mothers stood watching at a distance. Gabriel was there. And even Joseph Buquet! Naturally Erik's eyes landed upon Nadir, who stood nearby with arms folded looking on approvingly.

And then Erik felt certain his heart would stop for _they _were there. _His parents._ His mother stood amidst the crowd beside an unremarkable man who could only have been his father. They had not aged a day since he had run away from home, it seemed. Strangely, his mother looked at him without fear and without disgust. She was _smiling_ at the new couple as though they were any new couple deserving congratulations. _Maybe she doesn't recognize me,_ Erik thought. And it was here that he realized at last that it _was_ a dream for before that he hadn't been certain.

Perhaps it was one of those dreams in which he had a different face, he considered for a moment, for had he been himself, she surely would have averted her eyes and thrown him a mask if one were within reach. It _mustn't_ be one of those dreams, though, for as he passed by it was certain they recognized him; they offered their congratulations and _they called him son_. The part of his mind that remembered reality was amazed by it, but the dream-Erik accepted it as not unusual and continued through the Opera as though it were a reception for his wedding.

There was joyous music, much dancing, and a myriad of jubilant congratulations beneath a golden shimmering rain of something like grains of wheat that never seemed to actually land anywhere. He danced and was graceful; he conversed with the guests and was both well-spoken and confident at once. No one stared unabashedly at his strange features until he almost believed his hideousness had been one very long terrible nightmare and _this_ reality.

When it was over, instead of descending to the cellars, Elizabeth led him upward through the Opera, climbing higher and higher until at last they reached a suite that must have been located upon the roof, or perhaps _above_ it. The chamber was decorated specially for tonight, but as the light faded he let himself fall upon the bed exhausted and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the darkness was deep. There was an empty space beside him where she had been. A moment passed in which he simply wondered where she was without panic or fear of abandonment, merely confusion. A rustle by the door caught his attention and he shifted his eyes in that direction, though it was almost impossible to see in the darkness. His ears followed her as she moved from her place by the doorway back to the bed and slipped beneath the covers once again, returned from wherever she had gone. He moved closer, yearning to hold her close to him. Her skin felt cool to the touch from passing through the open air of the room. He pulled her close with one arm and with the other smoothed the blankets over her. She snuggled closer, seemingly for warmth and he realized, slowly, that it was true. The sudden awareness that he was warm—that his touch warmed her!—sent strange emotions coursing through him. He could not only warm her but also protect her, comfort her, love her, and he wanted to do all and at once.

He opened his eyes to the darkness again, scarcely aware that he had closed them. He stared into the dark shape that was her body beside him, and he moved against it, entirely dominated by a rhythm unlike any music, a rhythm their bodies made, in unison. He could not see her in the darkness, but he sensed that she closed her eyes as she arched her back. She made a low sound that his body more than his ears recognized. Silk and satin slipped away beneath their fingertips and he felt the glory of bare flesh against his. He caught his breath, then lost it again, gasping in the darkness. "I love you," he managed to moan as she pulled him to her. Was it the first time he had said it aloud to her? But the thought whirled through this mind and disappeared into the darkness before he could reach out and grasp it. He moaned with a pleasure he could not have imagined in his most gratifying dreams. Her breath was a pant in his ear, and if he was not mistaken, she repeated those words back to him. _I love you._ She loved him! It was a jolt of electricity through his body. Suddenly he was kissing her wildly, his hands traveling in a wild frenzy of exploration, feeling his pulse throughout his body and listening to a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before. Then it was finished and he lay gasping against her feeling her soft hands running over and over his scalp in a gentle caress, then down his back, surely over each protruding vertebrae that he was too enraptured to be ashamed of.

He moved off to the side but kept his arms around her, his face, moist with perspiration, still against hers. "Thank you," he murmured into her hair. Then moving closer still, he buried his face in her shoulder, her hair cascading around him and thanked her again and again and again until she put the tips of her fingers over his lips and hushed him. "I love you," he tried again when she removed her hand from his mouth.

He could hear her smile in the darkness as she put her hand on the back of his head and held him to her. "I love you too," she said. It was merely a whisper, but he was certain he heard it clearly that time. Something surged through him and he felt as though he would cry, but he was too full of joy. He held her tightly and closed his eyes again. They drifted to sleep in a tight embrace.

When he awoke again it was with a start for his breathing was obstructed and, drawing back, he realized he had smothered himself against her. As soon as he moved she awakened also and he fell to apologizing until she silenced him with a kiss. He rolled to his back with a moan of pleasure. She sat up beside him and leaned down to kiss him again. He experienced a sensation like finding oneself in a photographic negative or on the wrong side of a mirror; everything was opposite of what he had known. He reveled in the sensation, even as he questioned its validity.

* * *

Underground, it is often difficult to tell the time of day. It is true there was a grandfather clock in the parlor, but no one looked at it that day. It likely even chimed out the hours as it always did, but no one listened for its chime that day. It may have been dawn when Erik first opened his eyes to find the empty place beside him, or it may have been the wee hours of the morning before light. It is possible, even, that it was far later in the day than it is customary to awaken. Suffice to say that at some point daybreak surely came and above ground the daytime passed as it usually does from breakfast to luncheon and eventually to tea then to supper.

The pair of souls in the Louis-Philippe room five levels beneath the l'Academie Nationale de Musique had no use for the concept of time, however. It is true that one of them, due to concerns for the other of them, repeatedly slipped out from time to time and returned with food upon a tray, but the timing of these meals was arbitrary, and the time between them was spent in a strange silence that was neither awkward nor unnatural. It is true that the other lighted a lamp in the room, but this was not to create an artificial day but merely to ensure the first did not stumble upon returning. Finding the ability to gaze upon one another a comfort, odd as at least one of them found that idea, they left the lamp lit long after breakfast was finished. They lay side-by-side, heads propped up on their elbows merely gazing at one another until at last this position became uncomfortable. They lay side by side facing the same direction, he behind her with his arms about her waist feeling her hair against his face and her small frame beneath his hands. They drifted in and out of sleep, but regardless of whether they slept or wakened, it was a dream. For a long time she lay with her head upon his shoulder and his arm protectively around her, but there came a time when he curled tightly upon himself and she wrapped herself lovingly about him cradling him and humming to him. She lay on her back with her eyes closed while he absentmindedly twirled a lock of her hair in his bony fingers. She sat beside him as he lay on his back. She traced the features of his unusual face with the gentle tip of her forefinger. Tea, like the larger meals that came before it, was rather like a picnic, both of them sitting cross-legged upon the bed, gazing at one another over their cups (even while sipping) in a manner which would have been considered quite rude had they truly been _at_ tea, but as they dressed in pajamas and sat upon a bed, etiquette hardly seemed relevant.

Some time between when he turned on the light when she exited to prepare breakfast and when he turned off the light that night, he noticed the patterns on the additional quilts she had piled upon him the night before when she mistook his shameful blush and nervous trembling for fever and chills. He frowned at them and at the memories they threatened to evoke, for these were coverlets he had saved for reasons unknown even to himself. He had locked them away and forgotten them, for they were associated with recollections he cared not to think upon; he had hated them for what and whom they represented. Today he gently fingered the finely stitched edges, considered the patterns, smoothed the wrinkles tenderly. They were warm, he admitted. They had warmed them both, made all this possible. He sighed, reluctantly admitting that he liked them. He did not go so far as to consciously admit that he had missed them all these long years, but he slipped from his slouched posture to lie beneath them once more, pulling them all the way to his wretched chin to close his eyes and revel in their warmth.

It might have been evening or it might not have been when at last they determined it was time to turn out the lights and sleep once more. He paused as he reached for the lamp upon the bedside table. Lying on her side, she blinked in the light as she gazed at him. She watched him unobtrusively, betraying nothing of her wishes. He extinguished the lamp and sat a moment, hesitating before he lay down once more.

The humble furnishings of the room returned to his view as he lighted the lamp once again. He frowned as he watched the shadows flicker on the wall and reflected that the jumping light made his terrible flesh seem to squirm. Better for her with the lights out, he considered. He reached for the lamp again and glanced at her as he did so. The flickering lamplight made _her_ features appear softer. He gazed at her fondly. With the lights out, like that morning, he would not be able to see her. He very much _wanted_ to see her at last, and the look in her eyes suggested the feeling was mutual, strange as that continued to seem to him.

He moved away from the lamp, watching her. She seemed relieved. Silly woman, he thought. He ought to wear the mask and he knew it, but he also knew that she hated it. He would do nothing she hated tonight—or ever—if he could help it. Oh, that woman. She who dared to love him even as he was—a corpse of a man, hideous... his thoughts paused. Usually such thoughts depressed him, put him into a bitter mood. This night he was instead overcome by a wave of emotion that impacted his entire body making his pulse throb in the strangest of places. For a instant he was aware of something like gratitude that she gave herself willingly to him, but it immediately built into something far stronger that surged through him and drove him to her before there was time to ponder it.

His hands—those terrible hands that had caused him such grief—looked clumsy for but an instant fumbling with the buttons on her nightgown but as the gown subsided and he felt her skin beneath his fingers, the gaucherie fell away and he merely ran his fingers over her, delicately exploring, delighting in being able to see her reactions. He glanced away shyly as her fingers reached for the buttons on his clothing, but his fascination with her did not allow enough space for diffidence: an instant later his poor lips met hers aggressively, and he pressed her back and downward onto the soft pillows.

He felt her hands upon him and allowed it—indeed, he _reveled_ in it. Her touch warmed him and chilled him at once and he quivered with pleasure. He blinked back tears as he watched his own poor hands glide over her ribcage and then her hip bones, pushing the fabric of her nightgown ever downward. She pressed herself against him and he felt again the bliss of her skin against his. He closed his eyes a moment, overcome by all the sensations at once and when he opened them again he marveled that he had been able to survive having never been touched this way, knew that he would die if he could never feel it again. She was warm and soft and he heard a soft moan escape his own lips as he pulled her closer.

Beyond his comprehension, it surpassed the morning. In the morning he had acted purely on instinct, the analytical part of his mind missing the event entirely, having been driven out by nature. Tonight, though passion threatened to overthrow him every moment, he was rational enough to savor each sensation. He felt her hands upon his face and dared to believe for a moment that he was not unsightly. He touched her face with his fingertips and reveled in the fact that she did not cower beneath his touch. He touched her lips with his and noted the way in which they gently parted to allow him entry. He felt her hands find one another behind his back pulling him to her, and he understood it fully. She desires me; she _needs_ me. She would never push him away. With his lips upon hers and their eyes closed, appearance became meaningless. More amazing still, though, was the fact that while her eyes were open and she ran her hands over his body, her eyes sparkled with delight. Ugly as he may be, he was beautiful to someone.

She clutched his back, urging him downward. He did not need to be persuaded. His eyes widened watching her face as their souls touched, merged, became thoroughly inseparable. He sewed his soul to hers carefully, attentively watching her expression and repeating anything that appeared to please her. It was natural for one such as him to strive for her pleasure, thinking nothing of his own, for he had gone so long without. In his innocence in this regard, he could scarcely realize that in so doing, he threaded the fibers of their being together so permanently, so irrevocably, that she would be bound to him forever; he did so, nevertheless.

He wept with simple joy at the beauty of the experience. His tears fell upon her face, and she did not brush them away. When at last it was ended he lay for a long time in her arms, unwilling to part from her even to extinguish the light. When at last he did, he was amazed to find that when he left her arms he felt her within him nonetheless as though he could never be parted from her no matter how far their physical bodies may be. He lay down again in wonder and held her tightly. _Never alone again!_ he told himself.

As he drifted to sleep once again, he was infinitely more at peace than ever before.

* * *

**A quick final note****: **The "Webber reference" if you wish to call it that was entirely unintentional but once it was there I was loathe to remove it, for it really seemed the best possible phrasing.

**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** Please, please, please?


	120. Chapter 120: Regression

**A very long Author's Note because we haven't talked in nearly a week****:**

Your author greets you sadly this day. It will not happen now, so I can tell you. I mentioned several chapters back that my husband and I happened to notice someone on the adoption site... And since you guys are such great listeners, I'll tell you what happened. I opened up the site one night simply to make a point about how many children are still searching for families. I did a fairly limited search, just randomly. I only searched one race, one gender and one age group and I still received 22 pages of children, and we're talking at least 20 kids to a page. As we continued the conversation—we were really both making the same point, but we were agitated with the system, so we kept the conversation going even though there was no one to convince—I continued to hit next, next, next, next, going through all the pages of returns. My husband pointed out a child and made what the politically correct would call an inappropriate comment. (A reference to Erik, though the child really looked nothing like him, except if you consider the musical version because the child was a burn victim and his hair grows on only the one side). Anyway, he's five years old and available for adoption, and we're an approved foster/adopt family. Of course, there are hundreds of little boys out there—wasn't that my point when I pulled up the site? But I read the description of him and found myself hooked. I wasn't sure exactly what parenting him would entail—probably giving up my career—but I had this moment of thinking "I could do anything if it were necessary." I let a week or two pass to see if that feeling would go away, and when it didn't, I told my husband about it. I let another week or two pass and then I told our worker. Then I waited a few days more before I put in the inquiry because everyone around me said that this was too much to get into and a bad idea all around, but at last I made the inquiry. Then I waited and waited some more. Yesterday, I finally got the response that they had an overwhelming number of families inquire and that they have "made their choice." It isn't us. Now, the bright spot in all of this is the fact that they had an overwhelming number of parents out there inquiring says something really encouraging about the world and they probably picked the best pair of them. That's the important part, right? But I can't forget the other part—the part that says, "I wanted him to be _my_ son," and makes me feel like crawling into bed and staying there a couple of days.

Oh yes. In addition to that sad news, my dear friend from Ukraine, the one who was teaching me Russian, is in the hospital because both of her lungs collapsed. To make matters worse still, it happened the weekend after the Friday on which she got married, so you can imagine what an unhappy honeymoon they are having. I told her you don't have to _prove_ the "in sickness and in health" part immediately, but no one listens to me. Anyway, she's going to be fine now. She had surgery on Thursday and I haven't heard from her husband since, so that means everything's fine. (He calls when he's worried or doesn't know what to do.)

As regards the chapter, I should say again that all my sad news doesn't affect the chapter any because it was written before I learned all this and was only _edited_ while I was dealing with that. Even so, this chapter is not quite as happy as the last one, but what do you expect from me? You know how I love the angst, right?

And regarding posting, I want to say that this chapter is being posted Friday evening even though it's the Sunday chapter, because although I am far from the hurricane areas, we do expect to get a lot of wind and rain, so I'm posting early in case the power or the cable Internet goes out.

**Special Message for Ash: **If you look back at your review, you'll see that email addresses don't come through FFN. You might want to PM it to me but spell out the words "at" and "dot" because otherwise they'll get deleted. If I had an email address to send to, I'd send it.

**Standard Disclaimer: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Morning—probably. Elizabeth opened her eyes in the darkness. She could scarcely make out Erik's form lying beside her, but from the sound of his breathing, he seemed to be asleep. She smiled and squinted through the darkness, drinking in the sight of him in the darkness. He was decidedly less horrific than he described himself to be, though she could not be certain whether it was her emotion or the changes in him that made it so. It was likely a combination of the two. She had first noticed the changes on the day of their wedding at the church, which, though dim, was far brighter than the room in which she now tried to gaze upon him. She had said nothing to him at the time, for there seemed to be not a proper way to address it. Commenting on an improvement would seemingly negate her earlier position that she accepted him as he was, and other references to appearance in general only ever upset him, so she remained silent, but the fact remained that while she had long thought of his appearance fondly, it was not until the moment that he sheepishly untied the mask and rolled it up to place in his pocket that she _really_ noticed.

For an instant, she thought he had fashioned another of the rubber masks, for he had a nice, normal nose like any man, but as she gazed at him for a moment she realized the rest of his face was his own—and he was not at all the man who had once struggled out of a coffin while dragging her by the hair. Of course, anger and fear had marred his already flawed features that day, while at the church he was shy and timid, which served to soften them, yet his emotions were not the only difference. His eye sockets were deep and dark, but not as dark as they had seemed that day; his lips were malformed, but the deformity was less pronounced when he smiled; afternoons in the sunlight on the rooftop had turned his once-yellowed skin a bronze that many would find attractive stretched over a proper face. Even over his own, however, it was far from hideous now that the bones were less pronounced, the flesh ever so slightly more filled out with nutritious and regular meals. It wasn't a face that young girls would swoon over, but it was far from the death's head it had once been. Dear Erik, she thought. If only he had known he was making his troubles worse all this time with his isolation, withdrawal, and denial of basic human necessities such as food and sleep. She ran her eyes downward to study his torso, for he had thrown the quilts completely off and thrust the sheet down to his waist in the night as it became too warm beneath them and his pajamas were no doubt tangled somewhere in the sheets, forgotten where she had dropped them. He was gaunt, but the bones did not protrude the way he described. Either Erik had changed or Erik had exaggerated; likely both were true.

She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she did not want to wake him. She wanted to turn on the light to see him more clearly, but any movement, any light would surely rouse him. She lay still, peering at him in the darkness until she fell asleep again.

When she awakened again it was light in the room and Erik was staring at her. She noticed immediately that he was dressed once again, even if only in pajamas. He lay a short distance away and appeared to have been merely watching her sleep, or perhaps waiting for her to wake. She stretched and reached for him. _My love,_ she called him, moving closer and putting her face against his chest, her body full length against his. Her feet touched his—the only part of his body that was still bare save his face and hands. He smiled a shy, closed lipped smile and put his arm around her, pulling her tighter against him. Then he released her and they lay gazing at one another as they had the day before. In the dim light she could scarcely see the points of light deep in his eyes, and she wondered about what he was thinking, for it was certain that he pondered something, turning it over and over in his mind, for his expression was pensive.

At last his thoughts became clear.

He brushed her cheek with the back of his forefinger. "You really married me," he said softly, as though in wonder.

"And you, me," she told him lightheartedly. Then she forced herself to give him a sober look and she said seriously, "Of course I did."

He nodded solemnly.

"And yesterday," he said softly. "Yesterday..." he paused. "Yesterday was wondrous," he whispered at last.

Without meaning to, she turned her eyes downward as she smiled at his words. "Yes," she replied softly. "It was." It wasn't a lie and she didn't say it merely to cajole him. It was obviously his first experience, yes, but he had been so attentive, so sincere, so tender... If it is every woman's fantasy to be worshipped as a goddess, Elizabeth had reached the pinnacle of existence the night before, for Erik had touched her with a reverence and a veneration previously reserved only for the divine. She saw the disbelief on his face as she said the words, so she quickly reached forward to touch him on the cheek. "It was _glorious_," she said honestly, and the soft expression on his face suggested that there was a faint glimmer of belief in his heart.

He sighed heavily. "It is difficult to believe it is real," he told her at last.

"For me also."

"You cannot possibly understand," he stuttered. "To one such as me..." then he paused, his thick brows coming together abruptly over dark eye sockets. His expression roamed through confusion to consternation and at last reached anxiety and bedded down there. "Yesterday," he said again "really happened."

She was smiling. "Of course."

He rolled to his back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, then brought both gnarled hands upward and placed them over his face in an attitude of despair.

"Erik?"

There was no response.

She sat up and pried his hands from his face.

The black sockets stared vacantly upward, his skin turning a deathly pallor as the blood drained away from his face.

"Erik!"

"What have I done?" he managed at last and rolled his eyes towards her though she could not discern whether he looked directly at her or not.

"Whatever you wish to call it, is it _we_ who have done it, not you alone, and there is nothing to be ashamed of. I am your wife. It was wondrous. Glorious. _Magnificent_. And I thank you for it."

"No, no," he said wagging a finger at her. "You misunderstand."

She caught his finger in her hand. "There is nothing to misunderstand," she said leaning down to kiss him.

But he stopped her before she reached his lips. He held her away with a grip that was strong and certain, though his voice was unsure and timorous. "You promised we would..." he trailed off and tried again: "That there wouldn't be any..." He could not find the words. He sighed and blamed himself once again. "I said _I_ would find a way..." He tried unsuccessfully to glance at her briefly again as he added, "_You_ said we would avoid..." He could not look at her, could not complete a thought, but she understood at once and had no appropriate response.

It was true. They had planned it differently or rather they had not planned it at all. If he had not worked himself into a fever with worry the night before, perhaps they might have prepared better, but as it was, it had occurred entirely spontaneously likely the following morning, though she couldn't be entirely certain of the time. She had remembered their promise, his worries, her plans, but when she woke to find him willing, she could not bring herself to stop him. If she had he might have misunderstood and she could not bear to hurt him that way. Even if he understood her plainly, once the moment had been interrupted, his mind would take over as it always did, and that would be the end. It would have been like starting over. And yet, perhaps that would occur anyway, she worried looking at the anxiety-ridden expression on his face.

"We have been so irresponsible!" he cried.

"Perhaps," she said softly.

He turned to look at her, a broken, pained look, then got up from the bed and left the room. She heard rustling sounds as he rummaged about finding the keys to the other room—his room—and she heard the door bang as he went inside. She leapt to her feet grabbing her robe from its hook as she went.

Erik stood in his room—what had been his room for nearly eleven years—and looked at the thick layer of dust that coated everything. The organ, the coffin, the brocaded curtain—all was covered in a fine but even grey-brown coating. He dragged a finger along the closed lid of the coffin and examined first the clean streak upon the coffin, then his finger, then the streak again. The dust clung to his finger. Had he been truly made of bone, it would not have stuck as it did to the skin of living hands. The clean smear upon the coffin would have been naught but a scratch across its surface. He rubbed his thumb against his finger rapidly to remove the dust. This is how she found him when she entered the room, which in his haste he had not locked behind him upon entry.

How peculiar he looked standing there amidst the funeral tapestries beside the coffin, staring at his own hand, in his silken pajamas and with what little hair he had mussed from the night before. It was two pieces of very different art colliding to create a bizarre and disconnected picture. Elizabeth entering the room in her white nightgown, her dark hair steaming down her back, further intensified the peculiarity.

He glanced at her and then away. "Forgive me," he said softly, but had she asked for what he could not have said. In truth, he asked her to forgive him because he was trying to forgive her. He had hoped that she would say that it was not _so_ _very _irresponsible, that she would not be displeased if the result of their union were more than the sensations they felt at that moment. He wished to hear her say aloud that a child sired by such as him would not be the most hideous thing ever brought into the world and that it would not destroy her if she were to be the one to do it. He had, in fact, been so certain that she would say so that when she admitted that yes, they had been irresponsible, he could not bear of it. His mind made the next leap—that she was as horrified as any other woman would be—and he removed himself from her presence to get his thoughts together before he could face her.

"Always," she said taking his hand, and he pretended that she was asking his forgiveness; he gave it in his mind as willingly as he gave his hand.

Even so, Erik remained distant the remainder of the day and when evening came and she lay beside him, he did not repeat the previous night's encounter, though he desperately craved the gratification it brought him, needed it in fact, for he burned with frustration. If he initiated any intimacy this evening, she was prepared to ensure they took all necessary precautions; she was not worried about stopping him tonight now that it was clear what her reasons would be, now that it had been done once and she had made her feelings regarding it clear. He did not reach for her, however, and they both drifted to sleep sad and frustrated.

* * *

The following day Erik was more reserved still. There came a time—it turned out to be mid-day—when he entered his room and did not come back out. He sat at the organ and plucked out sorrowful chords. When Elizabeth opened the door to look in on him he did not stop, and when she stood behind him, he seemed not to notice her. She slipped out again presumably undetected and sat in the parlor to contemplate the situation. If the music kept him from losing his sanity, then so be it, she told herself. But the music could not be relied upon, for she recalled a length of time when he locked himself away to play but also sneaked above ground to stand beneath Christine's window. She recalled the sound of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and how it had apparently not kept him from what he had done the night that he had hoped to marry Christine. Whether he had tried it the night that he deluded himself into believing he had killed the Persian she did not know, but he had certainly had the opportunity and had not managed it. She remembered her struggle with him the afternoon Anton visited and considered what the future might be like if things did not improve. No, she decided, they could not simply live this way, hoping that it never happened again. Erik's mind would snap at the wrong moment eventually and it would be the end of all they would build.

She considered her options. She knew of a few individuals she suspected could help but there was that problem of Wilhelm. She had learned of a new technique or two that might prove beneficial, but she would have to first learn it. She was even certain where to go to do so, but Erik would disapprove entirely.

Erik would likely remain in his room all day. He might stop playing, but he would not come out to face her until he was feeling better, and that could be—from experience—anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks. She couldn't simply wait and she couldn't let it keep happening. Another glance at his dejected form through the door solidified her resolve.

She could slip above and back before he knew she was gone, but if the unthinkable happened—if she were detained, or if he emerged early, he would leap to some terrible conclusion and she dared not speculate what he might do. She could leave him a note, certainly, but the less said the better. In the end she gave him nine words; I will be back very soon. All my love. The last she added as an afterthought, lest he doubt the first.

When she returned he was still in his room and she sat tensely outside, for though she did not doubt her ability to convince him, she did not look forward to the argument that would ensue as she did so.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews:** Some folks who used to review have seemingly dropped off the face of the planet, while I still get regular reviews but from different folks than there were in the beginning. I miss some of you who have disappeared. Is there anything I can say that will make you let me know you're still out there?

Also, I want to let everyone out there know that we're _truly_ nearing the end now. I can visualize seven or eight more chapters until the end, so if there's something you need to say before we get there (suggestions, wishes, etc.) you've basically got eight weeks or so before we're done. Yes, I'll probably write something else, but not like... immediately or anything. Love you all. Look forward to hearing from you.


	121. Chapter 121: Anxiety

**Author's Note:** Wow. Y'all are FAST. I posted the chapter and went to bed, and when I got up, there were 10 reviews waiting for me. I'd LOVE to double that this weekend but I I'm not holding out any hope because we always get close (18 or so) but never all the way to 20. Anyway, what's gotten into me? I'm supposed to put out a chapter a week, not a chapter a day, and yet here's another chapter for you! Let's call this weekend a two for one special. Now, no getting mad at me if I have to skip a Sunday sometime, because I posted this one WAY early, okay? Thanks in advance.

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

As the time that they would need to depart in order to reach the hospital on time neared, Elizabeth watched Erik become agitated and disturbed. She tried to ignore his nervous mannerisms, but as time progressed they became more frequent and more pronounced. "Please," he said at last, "let us not go."

It figured Erik would decide such a thing mere hours before the event were to take place. In reality, Elizabeth was surprised he had not refused outright when she first introduced the idea a week earlier the morning after he had "betrayed humanity" by his own words. It had not been so long prior that Erik had claimed to care nothing for so-called humanity and insisted upon remaining outside it, but suddenly he changed his position to insist that he was its protector of sorts and he had failed because he had given in to temptation. At times he even seemed to look upon her as the source of all the blame, for it was, after all, her body beside him that had tempted him. But he could not abide by such for long, for he also viewed her as a savior of sorts and so he alternatingly cursed her and revered her throughout the week since that time. It would continue, perhaps at least another week or two, until she could be certain nothing would come of it and thus ease his mind. In the meantime, she had gone above and connected with a few acquaintances at the hospital and learned that Jean-Martin Charcot, the revered doctor to whom Freud had come to learn more of hypnosis, was scheduled for a lecture of sorts which the public was permitted to attend. It was the very same Jean-Martin Charcot who had turned her away quite easily with a disregard for her connections to Wilhelm when she attempted to gain admittance to see Christine. Even when she arrived again later with Wilhelm himself, Charcot continued to treat her with a great deal of suspicion, but his techniques, she hoped, might help her to solve the problem of Erik's lost memories.

That same afternoon she convinced Erik to go above with her _this_ day to the hospital. It had not been her intention to drag him above—only to ensure that he was aware in advance that she would be absent that day, to ensure that he did not reach any strange conclusions and become angry or upset, only to ensure that he would understand that she did it with him in mind. The argument she had dreaded did not take place. Instead Erik wrapped his arms around her. "I shall accompany you," he said simply, and when she protested that it was not necessary, that he might be uncomfortable, that it was so very far away and remember how nervous he had been during their short walk from the Hotel Royal, he simply repeated his statement again and again until she acquiesced. Now, more than a week later and at nearly the last moment, he changed his mind.

She did not respond immediately to Erik's sudden anxiety but the expression upon her face made it clear she was not pleased. When she did attempt to respond all she succeeded in uttering was a series of placeholders and stuttered syllables.

He put his arm around her, drew her close and whispered in her ear confidentially as though there were anyone around to hear, "I do not wish to go."

She widened her eyes and took a step back to see him more clearly. "You were so adamant—" she began. "You insisted—" It was true. It had been his idea to go. She had returned and slipped into his room where he still sat, no longer playing, at the organ. His elbows leaned upon its edge and his head rested heavily in his hands. When he looked up at her she could tell he had been crying though his face was dry now. She kissed him high on his cheekbone where she knew the tears had fallen and whispered to him that she felt certain she could find the solution to all their woes if only she could attend this lecture at the hospital. She was not asking permission, but she might as well have been, for she was begging him not to get upset when she went, not to worry and pace, and to absolutely believe that she would return. He had no reason to doubt her, for she had always returned, but something within him sickened and he had insisted that he be allowed to go with her.

It was not until the following day that it occurred to him that there was a still better reason than fear or jealousy to attend. Elizabeth vehemently believed that the solution lie somewhere in his past and that hypnosis was the key to unlock some long forgotten detail that would restore him to sanity. He smiled bitterly to himself; her position presupposed he had been sane once to begin with. The key, he was certain, was the future. There was, apparently, talk among the doctors that hypnosis could be used as she said, but it was not a new breakthrough. Mesmer had used it successfully over a hundred years earlier. What remained to be determined was whether one could do it to one's self, for Erik had a solution all his own. Perhaps his unchaste desires could be staved off permanently enabling him to live happily with Elizabeth without risking giving in to the act that ran the risk of creating more like him. He would have to do it to himself, though, for he was certain Elizabeth would not agree to hypnotize him not to desire her.

At this moment, however, when it was time to go, as much he knew he must quash those urges forever, the need to do so battled with the need to remain hidden avoid the gaze of men, stay safe in the darkness. She was understandably confused, of course. "You wanted to go!" she said incredulously.

"I know," he said softly, drawing her close once again and putting a finger upon her lips. Then he turned his eyes away. "I no longer wish to go."

She stared at him a long moment with sadness in her eyes, then seemed to shake herself free. "All right. It's all right. I understand." She kissed him quickly. "I'll return as quickly as possible." But as she took a step to go he declined to release her hand and she found herself apprehended and tugged back.

"No," he said softly. "He will be there." This had not occurred to him previously but just a moment earlier as he stood uncomfortably considering whether he should explain to her why he did not want to go, it occurred to him that in addition to his desire to avoid humanity in general, he specifically wished to avoid one small part of it in particular—the man in whose closet he had spent that unbearable about of time: Wilhelm. "You may never return," he offered softly. "I couldn't bear it now, especially. Not after..." He glanced away. He wouldn't speak of it, but she understood. He still maintained that he had had no right, but it didn't change the fact that having done so had changed him yet again. He was bound to her with an intensity he could never before have imagined, and if he lost her now, there was no doubt that it would bring about his death for certain, and he no longer desired that.

For a moment she simply stared at him. Then she attempted to argue. "That's preposterous, Erik," she began. "You know my feelings for him. It was once friendship. Now it's less. I wouldn't stay with him if—"

"And I know his feelings for you. And I know what I would do if I were he."

"You would be a perfect gentleman. That's what you did. You left me to make my own choice, and I did. _I chose you._ There's nothing to worry about now. I'm your wife, remember?"

He smiled. He almost asked her to say that again for it had sounded so wonderful to hear it spoken aloud. But he could not forget the immediate reason for the conversation. "Tell no one that," he said. "Let us share that with no one for the moment."

"Why?"

"Hush. Erik has his reasons." She glared at him. "I have reasons," he rephrased. "I do not wish to go to the lecture, but I could not bear it if you left me here alone. Please."

She hesitated, biting her lip and shifting her weight. He asked her not to go. It was not the same as ordering her not to go—something she would never tolerate from any man, not even Erik. If she went alone he would be in agony while he waited for her to return; he did not yet have enough faith in her love for him. But if she did not go, when would be her next chance to hear from Charcot and Freud at once? Would she ever, now that she had severed her ties with Wilhelm? And what of that, since she had not formally severed them? "Come with me," she said at last, vehemently. "You must come with me."

"Look at me, Elizabeth," he implored her. "For once, look at me the way anyone else would and consider what it must be like. For them, for me, for everyone involved. You don't care. I assure you, _they_ care. And I—" he glanced away towards an empty space on the wall. Yes, it was plain that he cared.

"It will be fine," she insisted, but she considered his words. The way everyone else would look at him... Just as he was at present the public would stare at his lack of a proper nose. A roomful of doctors might stare as well, but with different intentions. Still, a nose was the least of Erik's worries and they certainly didn't need doctors fixated on that. "Come as you did for the wedding," she said at last. In the false nose he'd looked almost like anyone else and certainly would be passable in a crowd.

Yet he looked stricken as she said it. Couldn't she possibly understand?

"I have done that before," he told her. "You might ask Nadir about it sometime. Oh!" he continued bitterly, "You do not need to ask Nadir. I shall tell you. It is not enough. People still stare, still point, still talk. Do you think I don't hear them with their Father Death Cheater comments? Oh, you haven't heard yet? Of course not, how could you? No, you haven't heard, but you believe me, surely. Do _they_ think I do not hear them? 'Oh, look, it's the Grim Reaper' and 'There goes Death himself.' It is always behind their hands or behind my back; they think I don't hear them, but years in the darkness makes one's hearing quite keen."

"People say cruel things—"

"People _are_ cruel things!" he spat angrily before he turned away from her once again.

She stood behind him, her hands upon his shoulders soothingly. "Who cares what they say? What about what _I_ say? Does that count for anything? I think you look splendid just like this." She turned him around easily to place her hand upon his cheek. "I will be honored and proud to be seen with you at Salpetriere with you just like this."

He shook her off with a sound like a low growl. "If you love me," (and his tone suggested he still did not quite believe it) "it is in spite of, not because of, my face."

She was hurt. Here she stood, his wife of just over a week, and already he doubted her. "How do you say 'if' to me, Erik," she asked at last. "Have I ever given you cause to doubt it?"

He perceived her tone more than he heard her words and his expression and voice softened simultaneously. "You love me in spite of my face," he rephrased looking away and downward, "not because of it."

She sighed, pursuing him as he turned away, holding his shoulders and trying first to turn him back, then to simply look around at him. "That would be true of any man. I don't think I could love a man for his face."

It was true, but she was also playing games with words. "Do not argue semantics. A face helps."

"Sometimes," she said, and it was true, for Erik with a handsome face would likely have been someone different entirely—perhaps someone arrogant, overconfident, thankless and ungrateful—perhaps someone she could not have loved after all. "_This_ face is yours and I wouldn't have it any other way." She paused a moment. "I didn't tell you, did I?"

He looked back at her over his shoulder, for always his curiosity was greater even than his shame. "Tell me what?"

"How nice you looked in the church when at last you removed the mask."

He had been looking at her already—or at least looking in her direction—but now he focused on her entirely, carefully, narrowing his eyes and seeking to find the distortion, the exaggeration, the pretense, the fabrication. No, she wouldn't say such a thing sarcastically to be cruel, but perhaps she would lie to bolster his confidence. How could he be certain? Years of studying men's eyes had not made reading women's emotions quite so easy; they were different. Yet she seemed to mean it truly. What to do? Only two reactions felt natural: push her away with an angry comment or dissolve into unmanly tears once again. He knew neither was right, but it didn't change that they were both nearly instinctive; he had to force himself to act otherwise—it required conscious effort. He hesitated, blinking uncertainly with the emotion that would undoubtedly break through if he didn't choose to act angrily within mere seconds.

He turned his hands up helplessly at her no longer fighting the tears, which welled up slowly and spilled out silently.

He sighed and led her to the door of the funerary room that contained the organ, for it also contained his wardrobe and dresser. The fine layer of dust persisted reminding them both that this room had been closed off entirely from their world except for that afternoon the week prior.

There was no longer a mirror here but it was just as well. He had no desire to look at his hideously deformed face with a papier mache nose attached pathetically and obviously—mockingly the only part that even vaguely resembled a real face. Even so, he fastened it in place and turned to look at her, blinking embarrassedly.

"Oh," she breathed softly, "yes..." Then she reached for him placing a hand on each side of his face and tilting hers to kiss him. He smiled weakly at her as she pulled him into the light and her expression changed ever so slightly. He noticed she tried to conceal it, and he knew that he must look more hideous than ever. She dragged the heel of her hand down one cheek then tapped the false nose playfully on the tip. "This may not work for today though," she said quietly, for though its yellow-white pasty coloring had probably once perfectly coordinated with his unusual skin tone, it no longer matched properly. The change in him was what most people would likely call an improvement, yes, but it would make the nose would look wildly unnatural, especially in daylight. With her finger still poised upon the tip of his nose she batted her eyes at him playfully hoping he might smile as she said, "We're going to need a new one of these."

He did not respond to her lighthearted gesture. Instead he sighed heavily and reached past her to the dresser for a nasty mound of rubber that lay there. He held it up and offered her a weak smile through a teary expression.

"Just this once," she told him when she realized what he was suggesting. It was a horrid thing if it was what had caused the terrible condition of his face when she first saw him when she returned from England. "Just for today," she said putting her arms around him and squeezing tightly. He had abandoned his insistence that he did not wish to go, and she wanted to reward him, encourage him.

"One thing more," she said urgently gripping his wrist as he prepared to apply the mask. "You need to know that I do not think you need this," she insisted. And when he hesitated, shook his head, tried to look away she took his face in her hands and forced him to meet her eyes. "I prefer you like this."

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, somewhat disturbed at how having a nose impeded the act, then pushed all his emotion deep into the depths of his soul and carefully applied the safer of the two adhesives to the inside of the hateful thing.

* * *

**Trademark Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** It was nice to hear from everyone last chapter. I know this one is more a transition chapter and all, so it might be hard to work up stuff to say. "Hi, I'm still reading" is sufficient if I haven't heard from you in a while. Love you guys. OMG, I can't believe we're almost to the end!! (Anyone care to speculate? Nah... that wouldn't be any fun!!)


	122. Chapter 122: Unmasked

**Non-story related note: **For those who have been following the story of my friend who is in the hospital, she is still there, so please keep her in your thoughts and do whatever it is that people of whatever religion you happen to be do when people are in serious situations. Doctors believe now it is a rather rare condition known as LAM, but naturally second, third and fourth opinions are desired. In the meantime, she's been married a week and two days. What a honeymoon, eh? Anyway, she's stable at least, but naturally we're still worried.

**Regarding the Erik-plushie project:** Oh, woe! Oh, despair! Gloom, despair and agony! I spoke with my brother this morning and he informed me that this Phantom of the Opera plushie project is not going to work out with him as the artist. He says he's drawn and redrawn Erik over and over again and it looks like merde. (He said it in English, but I don't know how FFN will react to my swearing in English here, so I won't.) Anyway, now I've got to start from scratch with a new artist, which first means that I have to FIND a new artist.

Which brings me to the happy part of this message: If any of you out there are artists (and I know some of you are because we've talked before and I've seen your deviant art accounts) the goal here is a 12" Leroux Erik plushie. The drawing can be totally 2-D. He needs to be dressed appropriately, preferably in his black Opera attire. He can have as much or as little hair as you like, but it definitely needs to be black. To be as cannon as possible, he'd have "only a few long dark locks on his forehead and behind his ears" but I imagine that'd make a plushie look a bit silly anyway. But you all are the artists, not me, so use your artistic license. Deepset eye sockets with yellow eyes in them. (We'll probably use those yellow plastic stuffed animal eyes in there.) He needs to have a black mask that covers his whole face, but it's going to be detachable, so you'd need to draw him without it and then have a separate drawing of the mask beside. It'd be best if it had strings to tie in it on.

I can't think of any other details except that it'd be best if you didn't do a whole lot of pencil shading because naturally, he'll be made up of different pieces of fabric sewn together and each one will be a solid color on its own.

On a personal note, I really love this one shot of the animated version of him that I've temporarily made my avatar just to show you, though the whole rest of the way through the animated version I didn't really like the angles or the facial expressions. Just thought I'd say that. Naturally, I can't use that version because of copyright infringement, but that's the IDEA I'm going for. Oh, if only I had some artistic talent!

If you decide to draw him, give me a heads up so I know that I'm not in dire straits and desperately searching anymore, okay?

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**Actual Author's Note****:** Okay, y'all are just so wonderful and I love you so much that I am actually doing a THREE for one special this weekend. It's Sunday night and I always post on Sundays, so even though you got what was supposed to come today on Friday due to the hurricane and then an extra one yesterday, here's one for today.

I have mixed feelings about this chapter so I actually need your help this time. This time, I'm going to ask a specific question because I need some specific feedback. Does having a chunk of this chapter in flashback make it awkward, confusing or just less pleasant? Would you rather see it rearranged to be in chronological order? I tried it both ways and played around with the order a lot. If it feels choppy, that's why. All suggestions for this chapter are much appreciated.

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Summer was over, but one could not have guessed it from the weather. The lecture hall was hot and humid, and Elizabeth and Erik found themselves wilting in the oppressive heat. He worried at the reddish tinge in her cheeks while she worried about the fact that he was wearing the mask that had so marred his skin previously. She tried to assure herself there would not be a problem. He had been wearing it daily then, according to Nadir. This would be for a few hours. She would help with its removal when they returned to the Opera. She would see that it was done properly and the skin beneath cared for. There was no cause for concern.

There was no cause for concern providing she didn't simply faint as soon as they stood to leave, she chided herself. It was so hot she could scarcely breathe. She noted she was one of few ladies in the room, and all present looked absolutely uncomfortable. The men weren't fairing much better either. Oh, poor Erik beneath that mask. She glanced at him again. He smiled faintly at her and patted her hand reassuringly. She smiled weakly back and leaned back in her seat desperately wishing she had brought a fan and at the same time considering that if he suffered, she suffered. It was only fair.

She sighed. They weren't learning anything useful anyway, but it was too difficult to stand and leave in the middle of such an event. Freud had said next to nothing while Charcot dominated the lecture and nothing he said was anything new. Erik raised his rubber eyebrows at her with a look of incredulity. She shrugged in response. As soon as it was over, they could leave, but there was also the chance that more information would be forthcoming.

"Just because he hasn't said anything doesn't mean he doesn't know anything," she whispered low in Erik's ear. "He could still help you."

The look on his face said absolutely not. There was no mistaking that, not had it been through a dozen layers of rubber. She felt her heart sink. He might tolerate her trying such a thing, but it was plain that he would not consider letting one of these men use any of their techniques on him. She didn't blame him really, and she certainly hadn't helped matters with her early asylum stories. She vaguely regretted telling him the whole truth. Even so, she doubted there was anything she could do for him at this point. Charcot was boastfully stating what results he could achieve, but he was not going to give his methods away so easily to this number of people. Anything more than what she already knew she would not have the opportunity to learn now. She could talk to Erik, get him to talk to her again perhaps. With unlimited time and his cooperation, she could surely teach him to relax without any hypnotic tricks, perhaps persuade him to talk about his past, but it would never be enough to prevent whatever it was that had happened with Raoul's brother. As a matter of fact she still didn't know what had happened to Raoul's brother for the only people there were Comte Philippe and Erik; one was dead, and the other claimed no memory of the events.

Charcot was providing now a list of the possible benefits of hypnosis, including using far less ether during surgical procedures. Elizabeth and Erik exchanged glances and smiled as each speculated that they were thinking the same thing: interesting, but of no real use. Elizabeth closed her eyes. She felt as though she could melt into a puddle in the chair. She felt Erik's hand touch hers and she glanced over without turning her head. He was watching her out of the corner of his eyes. She let him take her hand. Though they were far warmer than usual, his hands were cooler than hers and she welcomed it. She turned her eyes downward and looked at their hands as he twined his fingers between hers. She lowered her eyes still further and pressed her lips together. If only the rest of the auditorium knew what she was thinking! she thought, for Erik's hands reminded her of the day after her wedding and what she wanted Erik's hands to do again. She was smiling to herself wondering what Sigmund Freud would make of such thoughts when she felt eyes upon her and glanced up. In a strange coincidence, Sigmund Freud had happened to glance at her at that moment. She turned her eyes downward again, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks. The man was merely a doctor, not a mind reader, she reminded herself. It was a mere coincidence is all. She caught Erik looking at her from the corners of his eyes, a faint smile upon his lips and she was certain that _he_ was reading her mind anyway. She amused herself pretending such a thing were possible and thought fiercely, "We shall rush to our bridal suite immediately upon our departure and you shall repeat what you did that night..." but if he received her message he disclosed nothing.

Instead, as the lecture dragged on, his smile faded and he looked far more uncomfortable. More than once she observed him reach upward toward his face with his free hand then change his mind and return it to his lap. She patted the hand that held hers and watched him from the corners of her eyes. He was breathing shallowly; at times he seemed to be holding his breath. He eyes looked weary and his expression was pure discomfort.

At last the formal portion of the lecture was finished and people began to move about. Alas, they had spent all this time and learned nothing. Erik had endured all that frustration in deciding to come, for no purpose at all, and he had sat here suffering in the sweltering heat and gained nothing. Elizabeth cast an apologetic glance at him. She was crestfallen. "I am sorry, Erik," she whispered. They'd come all this way from the Opera to the hospital for naught apparently. They hadn't just been distracted and missed it. Charcot hadn't really said anything at all.

"It is no matter. Come. Let us go home. We shall think of something else."

She pressed her lips together and her eyebrows arched in the middle while turning down on the ends. She turned her eyes upward.

"Surely it is not something about which to give yourself over to tears. I am fine for now. We shall think of something else. Let us go." He stood. They could discuss what a useless waste of time it had been later. At present, he could think of nothing but departure.

She nodded then patted his hand. "I am so sorry, though," she said hurrying beside him as he moved toward an exit.

"Hush. There is nothing about which you should be sorry." He slipped his hand from her elbow to her hand to go single file among the crowd. "Things are far better now," he changed hands, stepped to the wall to avoid the crowd and put his arm around her waist again, "than they were when I met you, yes?" At this she allowed herself to smile.

"Far better," she said softly. "Could they have gotten worse?"

"Oh yes." He made a point of saying it pleasantly. _See how calm I am today? It will never happen again, he tried to convey._ "They did for a bit. Surely you remember?"

She squeezed the fingertips of his free hand. "Yes. I remember," she said.

He led her through the crowd carefully, walking around individuals when possible rather than pushing through the crowd. Realistic mask or no, crowds still made him nervous, try as he might to hide it from her. Her insistence upon normalcy or not, he still winced inwardly whenever an unknown person touched him, and in a crowd this size, that was inevitable. He hoped it didn't show on his rubbery face as he led her to the doors of the lecture hall; he desperately wanted her to believe everything was going to be all right.

They descended the steps outside arm in arm, but at the sidewalk a small group of people formed and Elizabeth was somehow suddenly a part of the conversation. Erik stood quietly. He would not disturb her. He was content enough to know that she would go home with him, that when it was all over, she belonged to him. He smiled to himself and savored the thought. She would always return to him. How such a thing was possible he still could not understand, for though he readily admitted his many talents, he still found it astonishing that it was possible to get past his appearance. It didn't matter how it was possible, however, for he knew it to be true and simply accepted it now. She even hated this rubber mask, perhaps more than he did, though it was difficult to imagine that it was possible hate it more than he did at this moment. Still, it was fortuitous that she did not approve of it, for had she appreciated his wearing it, he would have felt the need to do so every day, and it caused him extreme discomfort. Even now he could feel maddening beads of sweat coursing down his forehead and trickling along side of the false nose. How he hated it! He had sworn after _Don Juan Triumphant_ he would never wear it again, and he had not until this day.

He had worn it today for her sake, even if not at her request. Yes, she really loved him—so much so that she had come to this event in the hopes of finding a solution to his problem of the time he lost and the terrible things that happened during them—but if she appeared with him in public, it would have been most awkward, especially if that man Wilhelm had happened upon them. _And he had_.

He had noticed her right away—_as easily as I would have noticed her in a crowded room_, thought Erik with wonder—and he had approached her immediately. Elizabeth had been polite and civil. She had introduced Wilhelm to Erik immediately by name alone and with no further explanation. After all, Erik had asked to keep their marriage a secret, and even if he hadn't, it hardly seemed the time or place to announce that she'd been wed.

Erik felt the man's eyes all over him, scrutinizing him from head to toe, making comparisons, searching for weaknesses, reaching conclusions and, ultimately, being confused because the man who stood before him did not quiet fit the description of the "sorrowfully isolated man with a rather unusual facial deformity" of Elizabeth's notes. Had she abandoned that fellow for this one so readily after the vehement way she had defended him? How was it that she had refused Wilhelm but had so willing welcomed not one _but two_ new men into her life so quickly? No, this was probably not the "freak" from the Opera, Wilhelm concluded, but he was strange enough on his own. He was maddeningly skinny, if not as scrawny as the man her notes described and his face _was_ strange somehow, though an accurate description escaped him. Wilhelm wondered at the apparent pattern Elizabeth was developing and speculated as to its cause.

If Wilhelm was unimpressed with Erik, the feeling was mutual. When Elizabeth had first spoken of the young doctor who rescued her all those years ago, Erik had not imagined a ruddy-faced brute of a man with a wild shock of blond hair, an unkempt beard, and a massive gut. Of course, he had likely been thinner when he was younger, but really, there was no excuse for the untidy beard and tousled hair. One did his best with what one had, did one not? He readily admitted he himself was not handsome—_hideous_ was still the word that most readily sprang to mind when he described himself—but he was, at least, always neat.

The two men had glanced away at almost the same moment, for they sensed each other's analysis and appraisal and it made both uncomfortable. Wilhelm had then invited them—or rather, he had invited Elizabeth, but it seemed obvious Erik would accompany her—to sit nearby, but Elizabeth had murmured something about her hearing not being what it used to be and preferring to be closer for that reason.

As she led Erik away from Wilhelm toward the front of the other side of the lecture hall, he spoken her name and she did not respond. Hadn't she heard him, he wondered? Was her hearing so bad as _that_ already? He felt his eyes grow hot with anticipation of angry tears. Oh, the bitter irony yet again! He was a hideous creature with nothing to offer the world except his music, and the only woman kind enough to bind her soul to his would lose her hearing so that he would be able to share nothing of himself with her thereafter. How much more fair if she were to have been going blind, he thought. Oh, but life could never give him anything just or right. He called to her once more and tugged on her hand so that she might notice him even as she did not hear, but she merely glanced back then hurried through the crowd, and Erik, his arm still about her waist, had been forced to match her pace or let her go. Naturally, he had not let go.

Once they were seated, however, he glanced around quickly then dared to touch her shoulder drawing her ever so slightly toward him. "Oh, my darling," he said in a tone that clearly conveyed the words pained him to speak. "Why did not you not tell me?" and when she stared at him blankly he leaned closer and spoke directly into her ear. "You're losing your hearing?" A thick layer of rubber did nothing to hide his concern. The edges of his eyes turned downward pulled by the rubber cheeks that connected them to his lips, which did the same. He was the picture of misery.

She waved an unconcerned hand. "It isn't true, love," she said simply and he stared at her a moment trying to comprehend why she would make up such a thing and at last realizing she did so merely to avoid that man. He wanted to pull her closer still, but they were in a crowded room, and it had already become unbearably hot.

He smiled as he reflected on the natural way she sat beside him, as if he were just any man, but at the same time, not at all like he was just any man, for she would not love just anyone. It was, he considered, the first time he appeared in public with a lady, unless one counted their tense three block walk from the hotel to the Opera, and he didn't.

Still, standing here on the street after the lecture this way, speaking to no one while everyone else was socializing was rather awkward. He knew she sensed it, too. No doubt she was even now trying to turn the conversation to music or architecture: anything so she could bring him in. Better still, she might be trying to excuse herself from the conversation so they could return home. He watched her without listening to what she was saying exactly and he had some ideas about what he might like to do when they got home. He smiled to himself as he thought that she had brought him here unnecessarily. Everything was going to be fine. Those dreaded lost moments were never going to happen again. They happened, after all, only in moments of extreme tension, and with her by his side as now, what had he to be tense about? He sighed and looked around, pretending to examine the upper levels of the buildings immediately about him while he waited. Perhaps she wasn't trying to make an excuse to leave. Perhaps she still entertained some hope that they would find answers here. Oh, why had he chosen not to listen just now? It had been a very foolish decision.

He saw Wilhelm not far off and watched him with distrust. He disliked the man immensely. This was not merely a rival as the Vicomte had been. There was something about this man that stirred up something like hatred in him, though for a moment he could not place why. Clearly this was no Raoul de Chagny who, though he posed a threat, Erik had never seen treat Christine unkindly. Indeed, by comparison, Erik remembered Raoul fondly. He had misjudged the boy perhaps. But _this _man... this man had raged at Elizabeth. This man had used anger, fear, intimidation—suddenly Erik knew why he hated him: he was like himself. Or rather, he was like his former self, for he was not that man any longer. He narrowed his eyes watching the other. Yes, he had been terrible, and he had rationalized his atrocities with the way humanity had treated him. It wasn't an excuse, truly, but it was a reason, at least. What reason had this man? He didn't care to find out; he merely wanted him as far from Elizabeth as possible.

Elizabeth tugged gently on his hand. She, too, had noticed Wilhelm not far away and moving toward them and apparently decided that was their cue to leave. He was just about to respond when something stuck him from behind at the level of his knees and sent him sprawling. He forced down the blind rage that always accompanied such situations. It would not do to come up from the ground bellowing in the presence of all these dignified types; it would most definitely attract attention might upset Elizabeth and would certainly give Wilhelm the ammunition he appeared to desire. Instead Erik got up as hastily as he could, dusting his clothing with a quick brush of his hand while at the same time turning round to ensure that whatever had struck him was not an immediate danger.

And surely it wasn't. It was just a little boy, still sprawled upon the ground where he had fallen as well after the impact. Erik cringed for an instant for children always feared him, then he considered: this was the ultimate test of the rubber mask. He bent and reached for the child.

"I'm so sorry, monsieur," he cried. "It's my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"No harm done," Erik replied lifting the boy awkwardly to his feet with some difficulty. It was a strange feeling to look down at a child who simply looked back up without shrieking or crying. What did one say to a child in such a situation? "Are you hurt?" he managed at last.

"I—I don't think so." The boy was looking at him with a very peculiar expression. It was not quite the horror that children in the past had shown, but Erik doubted that was the look an ordinary person would receive. It was a look of perplexity, a look of consternation. The boy's brows furrowed as he desperately tried to figure something out.

The scrutinizing look made Erik quite uncomfortable so patted the boy on the head once and abruptly turned away.

Elizabeth's eyes widened and she dropped his hand, stepped to his other side and with a swift tug turned him around. "Let's go," she said with an urgency that was not appropriate to their company or this minor mishap.

Her eyes were wide and frantic. How very unlike Elizabeth! How very unlike her indeed! Had he ever seen such sudden fear in her eyes? Not since that afternoon in the third cellar when she had encountered Anton! He glanced around quickly. Wilhelm was not far off, but he was engaged in conversation and certainly not bothering her. Erik leaned down and put both his arms about her waist. "What is the matter, my darling?"

She pulled away at once, glancing at the people around her, then at him, then at the others again. She widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows in a silent message to him. What distressed her? "There is nothing to fear," he told her. "Do you think I would allow any harm to come to you?" He would have whirled about to face whomever frightened her, but she retained her grip on him such that he could not turn.

As she pulled him along he tried to ask her again what the matter was but her response chilled him. "Let us go at once and _I'll bandage that up_."

Bandage what? Did she think such a small boy had injured him? But then, he _had_ fallen fairly hard. He held out his hands. "Not even a scratch," he said, showing her the lack of abrasions despite his having landed rather heavily on the heels of his hands. He brushed at the dust on his trousers and chuckled at her apparent worry, then, seeing she was not appeased, he kissed her hand to show he appreciated the concern. Then he froze, a cold fear coursing through him like he had not experienced in recent memory, for as he kissed one hand she reached towards his forehead with the other and touched his skin for an instant then tried to push the rubber back into place. He clearly felt her fingers on bare skin. An edge of the mask had come loose and it was impossible to determine how long the adhesive would hold on the rest of it.

He looked back at her, a reflection of her wild fear. He was immobile. All those years he had survived using his cunning and his wit, now to be suddenly undone by panic. It was like that day on the street walking from the house to the Opera, only this was worse because it suddenly seemed they were surrounded by Elizabeth's doctor and nurse friends and they all seemed to be staring at him.

He clapped a hand over the right side of his forehead, turned and took a blundering step over—no, more into—the little boy who had not gone away. He stared up, wide-eyed, lip quivering. "I'm sorry, monsieur," he said again. "Did I hurt him?" he asked Elizabeth.

Voices surrounded him. Elizabeth spoke his name and tried to move him through the crowd, which suddenly seemed thick around them. "Is he injured?" someone asked and he heard Elizabeth stuttering no. "If so you're in the right place," someone said. "Come lie down a moment," another voice suggested. The voices blended together, confusing his thoughts, throwing him into a panic. He looked around, saw Wilhelm close by, the expression on his face one that showed he knew far more than Erik had expected. He found Elizabeth's eyes and understood everything. He turned and ran.

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**Shameless Begging****:** Please comment, especially about the chronology of this chapter. Thanks SO much in advance.

**Reminder****:** Don't forget to ask every artist you know if they want to create a plushie with me. Obviously, some type of arrangements need to be made, some type of agreement signed, etc., once I know who the artist will be... but in the meantime, tell everyone you know. Oh, if only my brother had just said no back in April I could have had one of you do it and then it could be DONE by now and we could all have our plushies already and I could sell the rest of the lot off in the Halloween madness. Oh, if only, if only...


	123. Chapter 123: Apart

**Regarding the Erik-plushie project****:** Good news! TWO artists have been so kind as to respond and indicate that they are working on some sketches to present. Of course, this makes life difficult in a different way. My fear is that they will each present something wonderful and THEN what shall I do? Ah, but let us burn that bridge when we come to it.

**Author's Note****:** Sorry there was no midweek update. I was really REALLY busy. The good news, though, is that the chapter that comes after this one is nearly finished as well. I MIGHT be able to put it up late tonight. If not, I can certainly put it up mid-week. All I ask regarding these next few chapters is that you suspend your disbelief just a little. I'm going to go back and tweak them a little to make them slightly more believable later, but that's harder than you might think, and I didn't want to make you wait... so yeah. Thanks in advance. I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

She screamed after him and took a few steps running but Wilhelm had reached her quickly and now he held her by the shoulders. "Who _is_ that really?" he asked her, searching her eyes with his.

_My husband._ But Erik had asked her to keep it a secret for now! It would have been too difficult to explain anyway. How would Wilhelm react if she admitted it was the same man about whom they'd argued in the hotel that night? What would he do? "His name is Erik. I believe we made our introductions earlier," she replied tersely and tried to turn away, but Wilhelm was holding her firmly and did not release her. "Let me go," she said a little louder. Surely he wouldn't hold her in such a large crowd. Someone would notice. Someone would reprimand him for such unseemliness

But Wilhelm was no longer speaking to her, no longer listening to her. He was speaking to the man beside him, asking for assistance. Elizabeth struggled to leave his embrace and when she could not free herself she screamed, "Let me go!" for they were on the street in the middle of a large crowd. Surely he would not attempt to hold her against her wishes under such circumstances. But he was far too clever for her, for in the next instant another pair of hands were on her, attempting to subdue her. "Stop!" she shrieked. A sudden silence followed in which it seemed that every doctor still remaining after the lecture turned to stare at her and instantly determine that there was something very, _very _wrong with her.

She said not another word and ceased to struggle. She opened her eyes very wide and stared into Wilhelm's. "That would be beneath even you," she whispered as she allowed herself to be led towards Jean-Martin Charcot. She heard the men's voices around her murmuring softly, Wilhelm telling someone to get Charcot and the other man who held her saying something about needing to get back into the hospital. Desperately, she wished Erik would return and wrest her free, but she knew that was impossible. He had gone down an alley, slipped into a shadow, disappeared into thin air as he was wont to do. She cursed having not asked him to show her just a trick to two; the ability to disappear would have been much appreciated at this moment. As she found herself being dragged helplessly towards Charcot, she saw Freud just head of her engaged in an animated conversation with another doctor.

"Doctor Freud!" she called. "Doctor Freud!" He turned to look, an expression of dismay upon his face as he turned to her. Her frantic eyes met his pale, placid ones. "Doctor Freud, please! Help me!"

Freud excused himself from the conversation he was having, for this looked far more interesting. He held up a hand. "What's going on?" he said to Wilhelm softly.

"Elizabeth," he said, indicating her with a jerk of his head. "She's not well."

"My, my," Freud began as Elizabeth glared at Wilhelm then looked back into his eyes with a pleading look. "Tell me again... how are you acquainted?"

"We are..." Wilhelm hesitated "We are not yet married."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open. _Nor shall we ever be!_ she thought fiercely, but she said not a word. Wilhelm's goal was to make her out to be crazy and himself out to be the nearest thing she had to kin! Her eyes widened still further as she tried to grasp what was being done to her. "Doctor Freud," she whispered. "Sigmund!" But dear Doctor Freud seemed to be inclined to believe Wilhelm; after all, they had been at least marginally acquainted, and, as nearly all Doctor Freud's hysterical patients were female she doubted screaming had gotten her anywhere at all with him. But Erik was out there somewhere, alone, perhaps frightened, perhaps unable to get back to the Opera, and without the wife who had promised she would never leave his side.

She had read quite a lot not only by but also _about _Freud, for she had a bit of a fascination with him for secret reasons all her own, and as _she was absolutely desperate,_ when he met her eyes she cast away restraint. "Shlomo," she whispered pleadingly. "_Shlomo Sigismund._"

A peculiar look flickered across the young doctor's face as he reached out towards her and towards Wilhelm. "Let me have her," he said breaking loose of the crowd and taking hold of Elizabeth by the shoulders. He looked at Wilhelm. "There, I've got her now." As Wilhelm released her, she consciously forced herself to relax under Freud's hands. She would be no hysterical patient now! "We'll take her inside, calm her down, let her rest a bit and then we'll see what's what, shall we?" Freud suggested. But he maneuvered her away from Wilhelm and the relief she felt was so great she couldn't muster the strength to be afraid that he was leading her directly into the hospital.

* * *

A few moments later she found herself on a couch of sorts for which she completely understood the purpose. Perhaps her only chance had failed miserably. Was she upon this couch merely to rest or... But he was not asking questions yet. Instead, he placed his chair where she could see him—that was a positive point, yes!—and announced, "I call myself _Sigmund._"

She nodded. Well, of course he did. And Erik called himself Erik. It didn't mean it was really his name. "I call myself Elizabeth," she replied guardedly; it wasn't a lie.

Silence. He waited for her to volunteer more.

"I should correct Wilhelm's statement that we are not yet married. We are not married, but never shall be. I am—" she hesitated. She was to tell no one. Erik had his reasons. But there were other things she was to tell no one, and this was a desperate situation. "I am married to someone else."

"Is that so?"

Perhaps he didn't believe her. He waited for her response, settling back in his chair, but he was still across from her, meeting her eyes, speaking with her casually. She was not a patient yet. "It is," she said. He waited. For what did he wait? More information? She sighed. She'd much rather have been sitting in the chair. Asking the questions. Doing the listening. She would be doing the talking if she sat there as well, though, she reflected. She never could manage to keep quiet as Freud was now doing. The silence unnerved her and she spoke, even when she was supposed to wait for the other to speak. It happened now, too. "For only a little over a week. I was married at the Madelaine. It shall be two weeks on Tuesday."

"Mm hmm."

There was silence again. How she hated the silence in this cold stark room. She could bear silence with Erik, but without him... no.

"My husband accompanied me today, but we were separated in the crowd as we left."

She sat up. There was no danger of her fainting, and as she was not a patient, there seemed no need to lie on the little couch. She regarded him carefully. His reaction would be telling. He allowed it and it heartened her. Perhaps he thought her sane after all. "I need to leave here immediately," she said with resolve.

He looked perplexed. "You asked me to help you," he said, not without kindness.

She closed her eyes. "I needed your assistance in getting away from the man who held me. Wilhelm. He kept me from going after Erik."

"Erik."

"My husband."

"Ah." There was a long pause in which she was sufficiently confused. She had expressed her desire to leave and he had not said no, but he had not bid her farewell, either. Was she free to do as she pleased? She could not think of a single thing to say and her confusion showed plainly on her face. At last he asked her "You had an argument with him?"

"No," she said irritably and instantly regretted the display of emotion. Was this what it felt like to be Erik? That constant need to hide every detail? How terribly difficult it was!

"You do not trust him?"

"I do." _Implicitly._ It is _you_ I do not trust. And _the world_. And she realized with a start how very like Erik himself that thought was. She sighed.

"Why the desperate need to go after him? Sometimes a husband needs some space."

"I am worried about him," she said reluctantly. He would take her apart piece by piece now and at some point, she would falter and he would catch her in an inconsistency. Then he would know too much about Erik and... and what? she wondered. She felt trapped. If she admitted that he had run, that he felt fear, she would have to account for it and that would mean explaining what Erik feared and why. It would sound wildly implausible. But if she pretended she had been arguing with him, admitted that he was angry with her, it would seem perhaps Wilhelm had been acting in her best interests, helping her avoid a domestic dispute. One might suggest giving her husband time to calm down, and time was something she did not have. She glanced around in vain for a clock or a window. It figured. Time did not exist in these places.

"He needs me," she said simply. It was a stupid thing to say. _I behaved improperly and must ask his forgiveness,_ would have been more likely to get her the result she needed.

Silence, yet again. How she hated the terrible silence! And she thought again of Erik, alone in the cellars all those years, driving out the silence with the organ, the piano, the harp, the violin, the sound of his own voice, _anything_, lest the silence beat his ears. It was no wonder he haunted the upper floors. Anyone would go mad with only the sound of one's own voice for company.

Her ears seemed to ring in the oppressive stillness that reigned in the room. The absence of sound was deafening. Still, she would not reveal more. It was too dangerous.

"You don't trust me, do you?"

The question caught her off guard. Was it that obvious? And yet she did trust him more than she trusted most, though she did not know him at all. It struck a chord within her, for she remembered questioning Erik this way and how long had they been acquainted? Erik had given her far more of himself that she dared reveal now and it seemed he had far more reason to keep it secret. She berated herself for her impatience and was immersed in guilt. Dear Erik! She had intruded upon him and questioned him. She had looked at him when he asked her not to and then left unexpectedly. She had raised her voice to him and argued with him and in return he had cried upon her shoulder and told her his darkest secrets. What a fool she had been to think he hadn't even tried, that he had held himself away, carefully guarded. When she found him at last she would tell him how she understood at last the chances he had dared to take with her, especially after how the chances he had taken with Christine had failed so terribly.

"Why did you call out to me for help on the street if you do not trust me?" Why does anyone cry out for help at all, she mused, but it wouldn't do to continue to decline to answer. The best way to answer this, in fact, was honestly. "I trust your judgment. I trust your medical opinion. I've read many of your books and I trust your outlooks..."

"But not my character," he finished for her, folding his arms and tilting his head to the side. What was he thinking, she wondered idly. Perhaps one had to take a chance eventually, she speculated. It had worked for Erik, had it not?

"No it is not that," she said at last. "It must seem quite unusual to you that I ask for your assistance and then decline to tell you anything at all." The look on his face revealed that was perfectly true. "My father brought us up—my siblings and I—not to tell much of our family to those outside it. I imagine over the years it has become so ingrained in my personality that I do not always think clearly about it but rather err on the side of silence. I apologize."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation that should have revealed nothing, but the good doctor was already putting a secretive father and a Tuesday wedding together with the name she had called him on the street outside. Secrecy was, perhaps, not pathology in certain instances. He remembered an incident that had occurred on the street when he was a small boy walking with his own father. How angry he had been that his father had said nothing, but his father had his reasons, too. His face revealed nothing of his thoughts, however, and Elizabeth saw that he continued to wait for more from her. She had apologized for her silence, so it was time to cease being silent. She must tell him something of the truth at last...

"All right. I shall tell you," she said with a sigh as though he had relentlessly beleaguered her to do so. _And then you shall lock me away for certain for this will sound so bizarre that you should make a fortune on writing about the crazy middle-aged woman you discovered in Paris!_

"Erik left because he feared what someone in the crowd might do to him." It sounded entirely reasonable in her mind, but as the words left her mouth she realized she had painted a picture of paranoia. She had no way of knowing that the doctor was considering a number of situations in which secrecy might indicate a mere desire for survival rather than pathology so she tried to smooth over her remark with "Though I sincerely doubt that anyone would have," and then stopped herself once again. Now she had suggested that Erik's fears were unfounded. Silence was better after all, she considered, for she would botch this entirely. She began to wish she had listened to Erik when he had pleaded, _Let us not go_. Perhaps he had some ability to divine the future and foresaw this. In the same instant she realized that if she believed that Erik could foretell the future, she was mad by her own definition of the word. What had happened to her of late? "Erik is rather unlike anyone else and as a result has apparently been the victim of much persecution in the past," she said at last. There. That was reasonable, was in not?

"In what way is he unlike others?" His voice was soft and despite the fact that his accent was distinctly Austrian, she sensed more than heard a hint of cantillation that reminded her of her grandfather.

It was too late to recant her statement now, besides, why did she suddenly _want to tell him everything?_ The part of her mind that had been trained to secrecy cried out a warning to the rest, but it was silenced. It was as though she were under the influence of a cordial. No! No, under the influence of the man himself. Careful! the voice cried: to be this relaxed and willing was clearly evidence of hypnosis, was it not? "His face," she responded nonetheless. "His features are unusual." She looked the young doctor directly in the eyes. "People are afraid of him."

"Ah." How could so much be conveyed in one syllable? And then at last he spoke freely. "I believe I saw him with you earlier. You were seated near the front, were you not?"

"We were."

He considered this a moment. Elizabeth was certain he was meticulously considering her sanity and she wasn't certain how she was fairing. "I didn't look carefully," he said, "but I didn't notice anything unusual about him then." Then Freud had noticed Erik as well when he had looked at her! Why? Had he, as she had imagined, been reading her mind, or was he merely that observant? Did he remember the faces of everyone in the crowd? People who make a living studying people might practice in such a way. He had noticed Erik and found him not unusual. Ah, but he would be so surprised, would he not, if he knew? No, this confirmed he had no special power to read one's thoughts or see through a person as he seemed to. Erik seemed not unusual!

"That was his mask you saw."

He looked very surprised. "In_deed_?"

"Quite. It is very well-crafted. He made it himself. He is very shy about letting anyone see what his face really looks like," she continued, almost ashamed of her understatement, "and today, it seems he had a bit of a mishap with the mask."

"A bit of a mishap—

"Far more than a mishap, if you must know" and then before she could stop herself "It came loose," she said, "and he ran to avoid being seen." She paused. "He looks..." she could not bring herself to say that he looked like a corpse for he didn't to her, nor could she say aloud that he lacked a nose which seemed, somehow, too personal a thing to disclose, though she could not place why. "People fear him for the way he looks," she said at last. She looked away, for though she trusted the man, she knew Erik would not, and in that way she had entirely betrayed him. It was what he had feared all along, and he had trusted her anyway. Oh, Erik! He knew, surely he knew it would come to this, and yet he dared to try. Was she no better than the rest?

The young doctor was smiling at her kindly. Was that the look he gave his patients? He would distract her now with a few more questions and then he would take her somewhere. It would be too late. She would not look at him.

"Elisheva," he said at last, and she startled. No one had called her _that_ in more than thirty years and yet she responded readily. "Ah," he said softly. Yes, he had been right. He had discovered her secret. But there was no need to belabor that point. It seemed this newlywed couple had more than enough secrets and difficulties; there was no cause to add more. "Where will you look for him?"

_Alleys. Gutters. Shadows. Cellars._ "Up and down the nearby streets, I suppose."

The young man seated across from her placed his right ankle upon his left knee. "It does not seem the most methodical plan possible."

She hesitated for but a moment. It didn't matter anymore. She had already told him the most significant piece and nothing had come of it. "He is likely headed for the National Academy of Music." That didn't betray him as the Ghost, did it? Surely many people might go to the Opera for a variety of reasons—they worked there, performed there, wanted to buy tickets for a later performance...

He raised his eyebrows.

"He..." and then she realized there was no reason to hide _that_, for it was one of the most wonderful things about Erik, the only part of him that the world had accepted thus far. "He is the composer of the opera that is currently being performed," she said proudly.

At this Freud seemed to sit forward a little more earnestly and Elizabeth feared that in revealing this absolute truth she had somehow revealed herself to be delusional. She had no way of knowing that there had never been the slightest doubt in his mind that she was sane and he was only hoping that perhaps at last he might get to see this spectacle that had been so talked about in the society of Paris.

"Your husband is the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant_?" he asked her at last.

"Yes," she heard herself say. She blushed just to hear the title spoken aloud.

The doctor was suddenly animated and smiling. "I have heard much about it, though I have not yet seen it. I should very much like to. I have heard that it is quite something to see," he said. "And the story," he hesitated. "Suffice to say I have heard quite a lot about _Don Juan Triumphant_," he said with a look that implied that he had heard about _all _of _Don Juan Triumphant_, perhaps with a particular emphasis on Act III. "I _do_ intend to see it, but tickets have been rather difficult to procure." It was true. Every performance had been sold out since the night that Nadir thrust Elizabeth into Erik's arms in box five.

Box five! It had remained _empty_.

"I rather think I might be able to arrange that," Elizabeth heard herself say still hoping to bargain for her freedom.

Freud's face was beaming.

"Elisheva," he said again, and she responded. "The composer of _Don Juan Triumphant_ is missing and you are his wife. Why are you wasting your time sitting here talking with me?"

Indeed! "_Thank_ you, Doctor Freud," she said standing and nodding courteously to him. He twined his hands together and nodded back at her. "I shan't forget your kindness," she said.

"Please do not forget my opera tickets, either," he said lightly.

"Certainly not," she said quickly. If she could find Erik in time, she would arrange for the doctor to have the box tonight.

Her hand was upon the door.

"Elisheva."

She turned. He smiled at her in a fatherly fashion, though he was surely a decade her junior. "I imagine there might be something I can do to help your Erik. Please let him know that I am available at his convenience. At the very least, I should like to be able to say honestly when I return home that during my stay in Paris I met the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant_."

Her eyes widened. An offer of assistance from Freud without her asking was more than she had hoped for. She nodded quickly. She had to find Erik first. And persuade him. She glanced back at the doctor. He was smiling. Perhaps he was joking. It was just as well, if he was. After all, Erik, talk to Freud? Never!

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** This chapter is still a bit awkward and needs additional revising. It was written four different ways and each time I didn't like it and threw it out and tried to start from scratch but then went back and cut and pasted from the thrown out versions anyway. I think this is actually the fifth revision (CORRECTION—this is the SIXTH revision, which is why I didn't post it until 2 p.m. central time. Whew!) and I'm still not sure I like it entirely. As a result, I'll not be surprised if you find it choppy, awkward, or otherwise difficult to read. Please let me know what's good and what's not so I can revise it if necessary.


	124. Chapter 124: Homecoming

**Regarding the Erik-plushie project****:** Artists are working on pictures and putting up with my inability to articulate the way I want Erik to look. Gosh, I must be annoying to work with! And to those who wanted a picture of the Universal Pictures phantom, I'm really sorry I haven't sent them yet. I just haven't had the camera and the plushie together at the same time (which, as it's an _Erik_ plushie, you might imagine suits him just fine).

**Author's Note****:** Well, here it is, folks, a day early. (This post counts for Sunday, September 28.) Sorry there was no midweek update. I was really REALLY busy at work, and sadly that situation is not going to change any time soon. I'm awfully busy at home, too, though that _might_ change in a week or two. In the meantime, please be patient with me. Thanks. REgarding this chapter, please continue to suspend your disbelief if any of it seems too weird. I had less writing and editing time this time around, so it's less polished and less well-thought-out. Hey! I also wanted to let you know that I am now posting some original stuff on my fictionpress account, though THAT story is going to go MUCH more slowly and I MAY not post all of it because if it turns out to be any good at all, it will likely be the first thing I attempt to publish, so I don't know how I feel about putting it ALL out there. Even so, if you're interested in checking it out, I have the same pen name over there as I have here.

**Special note to Rappleyea****:** PLEASE confirm that all is well in your part of the country. I need to send your book but I wanted to wait until we were in contact because I don't know if you were hit by the hurricane and/or if mail was affected. Further, please confirm that guy refunded the second Phantom movie charge. He told me he needed your email address and when I gave it to him, he said that wasn't it!

**Standard Disclaimer****: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

A moment later Elizabeth was on the sidewalk outside Salpetriere Hospital realizing that she had absolutely no idea where to look for Erik. She knew the direction in which Erik had immediately run, but that was all. He hadn't even gone in the direction of the Opera—he'd just taken the path of least resistance through the crowd and continued down that street. Surely once he'd gotten far enough from the crowd he'd gotten his bearings and made his way back to the Opera. Perhaps he'd even managed to get the torn corner of the mask to stick well enough that he could walk back calmly without attracting attention. She hired a carriage and instructed its driver to take her to the Opera.

Erik was not in the house on the lake and Nadir had not seen him in the office, the auditorium or the public areas in the immediate vicinity. Of course, he could be anywhere. Searching the Opera was like searching the whole of Paris. It would take days or even weeks, and that was assuming that whom or what one searched for was willing to hold still and wait to be found. Even so, she expected that Erik would have descended immediately to the house and when he was not there, she extrapolated that he was not at the Opera at all. She rushed out but the moment she was out she realized she had forgotten the adhesive in the cellars. She rushed in again but instead asked Nadir. She could waste no more time running up and down dark corridors below ground; she was winded and could surely not make it back up again as rapidly as she could descend. Nadir went to Anton for the adhesive, and this is how Anton and Christine came to be a part of the search for Erik that took place immediately thereafter.

They divided up the areas in which they might look and planned to meet back at the main entrance to the Opera no later than sundown, for Anton and Christine had a performance that evening for which they must prepare for even in the absence of it's creator, _Don Juan Triumphant_ went on. That gave them mere hours and Elizabeth dreaded what might happen if Anton or Christine found Erik first; he didn't know they would be looking. For that matter he didn't know Nadir would be looking, but she couldn't imagine his running from Nadir.

* * *

At last it was dusk and the others gathered in the hall. Sadly, none had brought with him Erik. But Elizabeth had not yet arrived, either. Surely _she_ had found him. It was she who had seen him last and seen the direction he had gone. Surely... The three in the hall attempted to convince themselves, though each admitted silently that now they would likely have to look for both of them. Their next search, if it happened at all, would be in teams of two, certainly.

* * *

Yes, it was dusk, and Elizabeth could not bring herself to return to the Opera without Erik, so she continued to wander aimlessly up and down the streets around Salpetriere. By now her dress clung to her, lose wisps of her hair stuck to her face, and what was once powder neatly applied ran down her forehead and cheeks in rivulets of sweat and tears. Her feet ached and her eyes burned with searching, but she had not found her Erik. She had just turned down a street without reading the sign bearing its name when she heard a shout. She turned in the direction of the voice.

"Madame!" the shout came again. "Send for help!" The boy pointed down an alley. Elizabeth rushed forward to the boy's side and then past him to where he pointed, for though he could have pointed to anyone or anything, she immediately believed she would find Erik where he pointed. "Wait!" he called catching her hand as she passed by. "Don't touch him," he said, and there was fear in his voice. "I think he's hurt. He holds his head like this," he said demonstrating. Dear child, she thought. Of course he does. It keeps you from seeing his face! She narrowed her eyes at the huddled form in the corner. It _had_ to be Erik, hadn't it? Who else felt the need to so desperately hide his face from the world? Sadly, there are of course many who feel such a need, but Elizabeth was fortunate; it was indeed Erik huddled in the corner she was certain drawing closer; she would recognize him anywhere.

"What happened?" she asked the boy. He merely shrugged.

She reached for Erik and took him gently by the shoulders. She startled when he looked up at her, for he had on no mask at all and stared at her barefaced except for a few places where the adhesive stuck to his skin making strange white patches. When she drew back he threw her a hateful look as though to say, "I told you that I was as hideous as ever," and she stared at him, wide-eyed.

"What have you done," she asked him softly running a thumb over his sticky cheek. "What were you thinking?" He had been so adamant that he was not going out like this, and now, here he was—no longer in broad daylight, no, but certainly in a public enough area nonetheless.

"Send the child away," he responded.

She looked at the boy. "Go," she told him with little wave of her hand. He stood still and stared. She wondered whether he could see Erik clearly from where he stood. It was true that Erik's appearance had improved, but it was also true that in his current state—somewhat dirty from the alley, disheveled and anxious—he was not altogether a pleasant sight. Indeed from the angle at which she gazed at him now, she could almost see what everyone else saw, and it was terrible. Surely in the waning light, the sight of him was enough to frighten a child. His behavior didn't help: he was stooped over, hiding his face with one hand and the collar of his jacket and growling out his words through clenched teeth. Had his face looked like anyone else's, he still would have been frightening.

She took his face in her hands and gently peeled a bit of glue from his cheek. "Let's get you home," she said softly.

"I said," he rasped, "Send the boy away." He turned his back to them both and coughed, a dry hollow sound. She hesitated, one hand upon his shoulder, one pointing at the child.

"What happened?" she asked again.

"Get _rid_ of him and we'll get out of here before the _rest_ come back." Somehow the growl became still more menacing.

"The rest of them?" Getting information from Erik had become rather hopeless. She turned away and went to the boy. _"What happened?"_ How many times did she have to ask it before _someone_ answered her?

He stood up straight and looked her in the eye for she has used the tone that every woman knows and uses when a child misbehaves. "I didn't do it, honest," he said at once, tears springing to his wide eyes. "I told them we would get in trouble but they didn't listen!"

"What did 'they' do?"

"I don't know. I didn't see it all," he said, stammering. "My brother tried to send me home. He said I was too young to go around with him." His eyes strayed to Erik once again. "Who is he? He doesn't look like a beggar."

"He isn't." She threw a look at Erik. Everything about his life was secret, and perhaps _that_ was what truly terrified people. "He is a great musician, a composer of operas... and he is my husband."

The boy breathed a syllable that was more a gasp than a word, but it conveyed both awe and regret. "I _thought_ he was dressed too nice," he began. Then he said, "My mother's going to be very angry with my brother when she finds out," he said seriously.

"I should certainly hope so!" Though it occurred to her to wonder why mother should be more angry that the children tormented a composer than a beggar! What were these children being taught? "Go home," she told him. "_Now._" Still he hesitated. Was he merely curious she wondered, or _repentant_? Or perhaps desirous of being helpful? "Go and find me a carriage," she whispered. Then, as an afterthought, she found a coin in her pocket and offered it to him.

He nodded solemnly then turned and ran.

Erik heaved a heavy sigh. "At last," he growled, dusting himself off and straightening himself as best he could. He walked to her with a slight limp and glanced carefully from the alley. This street was deserted anyway, but he could not be guaranteed the next one would be. "The Opera," he told her. Then, shrinking back into the shadows, "Let us wait until it is fully dark."

Now that he stood before her unharmed her worry turned to exasperation. Who would have found him had Wilhelm been successful in keeping her? And who would have rescued _her_? "It is what we should have done hours ago—" she began, but he hushed her with a finger to her lips.

"Hours ago it was not possible," he said, but his tone held no authority. He clearly knew that he had overreacted and he waited for her to point it out.

She heard the rhythmic beat of hooves approaching, knew that the child had done as she had asked. "Erik. Your mask?" she asked, holding out the tube of adhesive.

He shook his head. The adhesive, not effective at holding the mask onto his skin, had readily caused the mask to stick to itself when he rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket. It would not be useful today. He showed it to her and when her eyes asked the question he shook his head again. "It would have come off entirely anyway. As it was useless, I tore it lose prematurely." He shuddered at the thought of how it had looked moments before he had. It was certainly the most appalling he had ever been: a nice normal face half peeled off to reveal a skull beneath. He flashed her a rotten grin. "At the moment, I thought it would be necessary to frighten off that final child."

"The _final _child?" She was utterly perplexed.

"Yes, _that _one. The one who remained." He looked at her confused expression. How did she not understand? "The one who did not leave with the rest of the _children._" He spat the word at her and she drew back and glanced around instinctively. Then, remembering the carriage she glanced back out to the street where the driver waited and the horse pawed impatiently with a front hoof.

Once they were safe inside with the windows closed she asked him, "_What _children?"

"You don't believe me? The ones that will return with sticks, stones, or..." he hesitated "whatever a child can find in the street to throw."

"You're serious?" He glared at her and she could scarcely believe it. "Why, Erik, one simply stands over them and scolds them and they cease whatever their mischief!"

He sighed. It was true. It seemed simple now, riding away from the place safely in a carriage. It would have likely worked quite easily in the lifelike mask, too. But at the moment he'd encountered them he hadn't thought of it. He was already dirty, having fallen twice, once in a filthy alleyway. He'd been staggering down the road with a limp, for though he had told Elizabeth at the hospital that he was unharmed, as soon as he increased his pace he found his right leg hurt considerably. This combined with the need to keep his right hand pressed against his forehead covering the place where the mask had come loose made him quite uncoordinated in his flight. His lack of coordination was further exacerbated by his panic, for he was certain that the man Elizabeth had rejected for him had seen straight through to the death's head below and would send someone after him out of spite or revenge or hope of getting the woman back.

He'd worked himself into such a panic that his vision blurred and motions became uncoordinated, a stark contrast to the grace and dexterity he possessed when within the Opera where it seemed nothing could daunt him.

They were only children, yes, but perhaps children are more in touch with their instincts than adults, for when they noticed him, they seemed to smell his very fear and pick up his trail like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Their trailed their hapless quarry through the streets of Paris, their high ridiculing laughter sounding more and more like yips and howls as time passed. For a moment in Erik's mind he was a child himself and they _the other children_. But whether he was a child or an adult was irrelevant, for either way he was defenseless against them. It was this thought that distracted him and he made the final mistake—he turned down this alley, which ended in a wall.

In truth, nothing much had happened. One boy had thrown something at him and missed, which was fortunate for whatever it was had clattered to the pavement with a sound that suggested it would have hurt had it connected. A few of the others had better aim but apparently softer projectiles. He wasn't injured in any way, merely humiliated—especially at the size of them. They weren't half his height, yet he knew he could do nothing against him and still cling to the belief that there was a chance he wasn't a monster. Even if he did nothing, as he did, cowering away, society was likely to judge him the monster, for children were 'innocent,' even when they behaved otherwise.

At that time they had no idea what lay beneath the mask and were merely amused to see an adult behave so strangely; the eldest of them speculated he was perhaps drunk or crazy, while the younger ones simply followed the actions of the elders. A few thrown items they had managed to scavenge and several jeers later they had tired of their game and gone away except for the small one who stood by the corner anxiously looking up and down the street, and then at Erik. Somewhat calmer then, Erik resolved that as soon as that child left he would be on his way, rather less conspicuously than before he if could manage it.

But the rotten brat would not leave, and the thought occurred to Erik that perhaps this one stood guard over him while the others went for weapons—or worse, _their parents_. With that in mind, he carefully peeled the rubber from his face and waited for an opportune moment. He would scare this one off easily for he was small and timid and alone. Once that was done, getting back to the Opera would be slightly more difficult looking as he did, but there are other ways to hide one's face if one can keep a presence of mind. That was the trouble, really. It seemed he was losing himself to panic every time he was outside the Opera more than a few moments. Those dreams he had entertained in the days of Christine—living in a flat like anyone else—were exactly that: dreams. Poor Elizabeth. She would be resigned to remaining in the Opera for as long as she chose not to leave him. He sighed and looked at her frustrated expression. "I am so sorry," he said ashamedly turning away from where he had been leaning against her. "I've ruined your lecture."

She was angry. Or, she _had been_ angry. She had been quite upset after having the child bring her to him only to learn that his perception was that the child had been tormenting him, but it was not possible to remain angry with Erik when he apologized in his way. His tone was so dejected and his posture so forlorn. She abandoned her anger and sighed. "You haven't ruined anything," she said. "You might recall we had already decided Charcot would be of no assistance."

He nodded. It was true.

She sighed. "But look! What if I hadn't come along when I did?"

He bent down to embrace her. "I knew would come for me," he said softly.

"Oh, did you now?" she asked him drawing away and pushing him back to examine his expression. Was it not only that morning that he had suggested she might not return?

He breathed deeply running his hands up and down her arms. "You _always _come for me," he said. "What would I do without you?" Erik was suddenly in one of his tender moods again.

He clung to her throughout the carriage ride. "Elizabeth is so kind," he said running his fingers over her hand. "Elizabeth always returns to Erik. What can Erik do in return?"

She did not rebuke him for distancing himself, nor did she remind him that she loved him and did not want anything but his love in return. Instead, when he asked what he could do, she quickly returned, "I want you to meet someone."

He sighed. He had no choice. He owed her everything, did he not? The Opera, his love, his life thrice over, and now something to make up for this ruined experience above and something more to make up for the fact that she would spend the remainder of her life below ground. He sighed. He would have to meet whomever it was. He only hoped it would not be someone terrible. "Who is it?" he managed to ask weakly, though he had already given his consent in his heart. "Who shall I meet?"

"Sigmund Freud."

It was worse than he might have imagined. That man had such a bizarre system of beliefs if his writing was any indication, and from the look of him today in the lecture hall he was young and arrogant and aloof. Worse still was her probable reason for the request. She thought he crazy. It was probably true, yes, but it hurt to think that she thought so.

But she was right. He was useless now. When he was not a danger to others, he was a danger to himself. He reflected over the number of people he had harmed in the course of the last year and bitterly acknowledged that he couldn't even be certain of the number due to the things he did not recall. He'd certainly come close to killing himself half a dozen times or more. Worse still he had all he'd ever wanted and was perhaps more miserable than he had ever been before! Top it all off with finding himself wet and dirty in an alley hiding from _mere children_. Yes. It was true. He was useless.

The haughty doctor was perhaps his last chance. If _that _didn't work, he'd be better off dead. Poor Elizabeth. He had brought her along on this terrible journey without knowing what it would entail. If this failed she would be widowed by suicide twice, once for the face of her son and once for the face of her husband. She hardly deserved that. Sadly, her fate rested in the hands of an arrogant Austrian who was obsessed with parental relations and sexuality. Could things _possibly _get any worse?

He would have to talk to that man, though. He would be forced to reveal something of himself to someone he did not know and did not trust. He would lay himself open for dissection and abuse and ultimately, he would be forced to resort to violence again to prevent the doctor from revealing his secrets. Then the guilt would eat away at him a piece at a time until there was nothing at all worthwhile left. Still, he would take the chance, he supposed. He sighed and said nothing.

* * *

The carriage stopped and Erik threw Elizabeth a pained expression. The main entrance of the Opera? At this hour it would not be empty! It was true the guests would not yet be arriving, but the place would be teaming with life. He hesitated but she insisted they must enter this way tonight. She had her reasons. She begged him not to question her and at last he let her encourage him up the steps. She still could not conceive of it, then, he wondered? Then this would show her at last. It would be terrible, but he would bear it. It would teach her at last what it meant to be Erik, what it would mean to be Erik's wife. Whatever horrors occurred when they encountered others she would see for herself. He would stand there and suffer whatever abuse...

His first sensation was of the bright light, the brilliance of the foyer, the sparkle of the chandelier, the glow of the gas lamps, the reflection of light from the marble pillars and the staircase; after the darkness of the carriage it was _white_. He squinted. The second sensation was a sound like a scream and he was sure that this was the first of many which would follow in succession as the situation degraded into something he would remember in horror for the rest of his short miserable life.

It was another sudden impact that caught him off-guard. Something slammed into him, full length from his chest all the way down. It nearly toppled him but a pair of hands upon his shoulders steadied him and remained there reassuringly. Elizabeth's? But no, for one of her hands was still clasped in his, the other upon his elbow. But the hands on his shoulders were gentle. How strange!

He realized that he had closed his eyes upon impact and that whatever had struck him remained against him. He opened his eyes slowly and looked down. _It was Christine_. Her arms were about his waist, her head upon his chest, and she was clinging to him desperately. Behind her stood Anton, his face a mixture of relief and joy. He glanced over his shoulder carefully without disturbing Christine to find Nadir standing to one side behind him, hands still raised from when he had prevented Erik from falling. Nadir offered him a half-hearted grin and Erik suddenly remembered the absence of a mask. "Daroga," he murmured, but covering his face was impossible, for Elizabeth's hand held his tightly and his other arm was pinned where Christine embraced him. "Don't look, Daroga," he whispered, but Nadir merely met his eyes carefully and gave him a reassuring nod. One of Nadir's hands descended to his own side and the other gave Erik a few short reassuring taps on the shoulder before following suit.

Christine released him with a gasp. "Thank heavens you're safe," she said taking his free hand in one of hers and stroking it softly with the other. She didn't look up, but it was all right. She was crying; he was certain of it.

Elizabeth tugged at his hand and he moved in the direction she suggested. Anton raised a hand in either greeting or farewell, he could be sure which, and commented, "It is good to have you back, Monsieur." The party exchanged glances. It was very late. Two of them had costuming and warming up to do, and the foyer could not remain empty much longer, despite Nadir's orders. Christine twined her fingers together and called to Erik goodnight while standing on her toes as she watched him leave. The men each laid one of their hands upon his shoulders once more. They had _worried_ for him. They were _pleased to have him back_. He glanced back at them. This, then... This was... _family?_

"Let's get you home," Elizabeth suggested, tugging Erik towards the wall through which he had taken her when they arrived after their wedding. He opened the secret door with a touch but as they slipped through he glanced back over his shoulder one last time before the wall closed. "I _am_ home," he said softly.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I don't know what to say other than please review. If you notice any awkward bits or have any suggestions on stuff that needs cleaned up, it'd be WAY helpful. Thanks in advance!!

**Shameless Begging 2:** Hey... umm... did I do something wrong? Make someone angry? _Write a chapter that sucked?_ I'm just asking because like... reviews are _way_ down. If I messed up badly or something, PLEASE someone tell me. I mean... don't just leave me here wondering. I can TOTALLY take constructive criticism... I might even be able to live through a giant "YOU SUCK" in boldfaced letters... but the absence of feedback is like... _killing_ me. Maybe it's because we're nearing the end... Erik has a wife and some other folks who care about him, big climactic stuff is all over and this has gone on too long? What can I do to fix it?? :cringes in despair:


	125. Chapter 125: Surreal

**Author's Note:** Okay, this is not officially "late" because it is still Sunday, but I feel the need to apologize as it is comes late in the day Sunday leaving you not much time to read and review. Even so, life has become so unbearably busy that it will likely take me until next week to crank out the next chapter, so I guess that gives you a week. No Reader Left Behind, I suppose... This chapter gave me bad feelings. :shudders:

Ah yes... and I should admit that I finally gave myself over to writing a re-write of the esteemed Monsieur Leroux's work, one in which Leroux exact timetable and description is not diverted from in the least but in which we get far more of everyone's feelings. In other words, at last I set out to do what I had believed Susan Kay had done and what, looking back, I truly wish she had done instead of what she actually did. That having been said, I suppose I should be grateful, for had she done it, there would be nothing left for me to do, eh?

**Standard Disclaimer: **_Phantom of the Opera_ owns me (not the other way around) everything here is Leroux-based, and that's Leroux's Persian, not Kay's, even if everyone is calling him Nadir anyhow.

* * *

Home.

The word felt strange in his mouth, sounded stranger still in his voice. Home. Had he ever had one before? Yes, he had resided at the Opera for eleven years—perhaps the longest he had ever remained in one place—and he had made his cellar house comfortable enough, but tonight was the first time he had used the word home, and he was not yet _at_ the house on the lake. He looked back again but the counterweight had closed the hole in the wall an instant after they passed through. The others were beyond the wall now, and he could not see them.

Christine had embraced him. This had happened many times now—in Raoul's parlor, in the house on the lake before he turned her away, and again on opening night—but it was not until tonight that he processed the emotion associated with it. She no longer feared him. Had he changed so much since the night with the grasshopper and the scorpion? And Nadir... he remembered the careful way Nadir had looked out the window when he had removed his mask that night in his apartment. True, he had _told_ him not to look that night, but he had told him not to look tonight as well. Nadir had met his eyes, smiled at him, even. And Anton... well... Anton was clearly not inebriated this night and still he failed to shudder. These three combined with Elizabeth's comments earlier left him confused and as he made his way slowly down the passage, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, at last he said to the woman beside him, "We shall need a mirror eventually_." To replace the one I broke,_ he thought wryly. _The one I broke the day you agreed to marry me._ How long ago was that, exactly? Days were still running together in a most unorganized fashion. How long had _Don Juan Triumphant_ been running? How long had Elizabeth been back? It was a muddle, but he didn't care. "A mirror," he repeated idly.

"Of course, Erik," she said softly, but he could make out her features in the darkness and her expression was worried. Why? None of them had looked worried above. Indeed, they had looked relieved. Relieved that he was back; they had been worried while he was away. It was the reverse of everything that was usual, the reverse of everything normal. He half expected he would look into a mirror and see the reverse of what he had seen before. Surely this was all a dream after all. Christine had embraced him. Christine had kissed his hand.

But it was Elizabeth who led him ever downward, back to the house on the lake, and Elizabeth looked worried. Worried over what? The thought of his looking in a mirror? Then perhaps he looked worse, not better, he speculated. Even so, no one had screamed... He glanced over his shoulder one last time. He sorrowfully acknowledged that he had truly hoped the trio from the foyer would follow him and was disappointed that they had not. She had kissed his hand. They had put their hands upon his shoulders. It had felt... _he_ had felt... better—safer!—than he had in a very long time. Not only safer but—he struggled for the word—Loved, perhaps? Accepted, definitely. Cared for. It was foreign, but it felt _so good_.

At last reached the parlor where he sat upon the couch and allowed Elizabeth to carefully remove what was left of the adhesive from his face. It was an act that provided for a number of tender moments, but she entirely failed to enjoy it for she was worrying yet again at his sad countenance. He simply looked sad and lonely.

He stared at the door. Perhaps there would be a knock upon it. Each of the three of them knew the way here, certainly. He sighed sorrowfully. They would not be coming. Christine and Anton would be performing. Nadir would be—well—it was not really clear what exactly Nadir would be doing. Years earlier Nadir had cased about the Opera in no official capacity keeping tabs on Erik. Then he had come at Elizabeth's request to look after Erik. He functioned in some official capacity and Erik was paying him regularly enough, but what he did exactly remained a mystery, especially considering Fournier and LeBlanc held the positions of pseudo-manager figureheads to provide a front to the public. Surely Nadir could spare the time. But there was no knock upon the door, and Erik resigned himself to the fact that the fleeting moment of acceptance was merely that: a fleeting moment.

"They can come and visit, Erik!" she said at last when she could bear no longer to look at his sad eyes.

He gave her a small smile. "Now you read thoughts, do you?" Was it _that _obvious that he had enjoyed the moment? He had done his best to look disgusted and annoyed—especially with the daroga, who dared to share unabashedly into his face as though he were anyone else! Who did he think he was? And yet... and yet... he had not looked entirely revolted! He hadn't even flinched. Anton's reaction was irrelevant as his inebriated sojourn here had predisposed him to an absolute failure to notice, and Christine had not looked up. But she _had_ touched his hand. "Do you think they would?" he asked at last.

"Absolutely!" she returned excitedly.

"And you wouldn't mind?"

She stared at him in disbelief. Why should she mind? It was what she had wished for all along. Had she not suggested he needed more than one friend? Had she not suggested he consider whom to invite to tea? Five was a lovely number, though six would be better, especially if it were another lady. Even so, another lady seemed difficult to procure, especially on short notice. Five it would have to be, she acquiesced. Five—that is, unless Erik changed his mind again in an instant or, worse still, moments before they arrived.

"Tomorrow afternoon?" she suggested. Erik merely blinked at her in what might have been disbelief.

She glanced at the clock. It was too late to rush back to the hospital with tickets for Doctor Freud now as he'd scarcely have time to dress for the opera let alone make his way all the way here, but it was not too late to go to Nadir and make arrangements for tomorrow. Tomorrow morning she would go to Freud in person at the hospital with tickets. No. Tomorrow Nadir would go. Or she would have Nadir send Darius or... someone. Whatever. Someone would go to the hospital, but it would not be she, for the matter of her marriage to Erik had yet to be explained to Wilhelm, and she wasn't going anywhere alone until that matter was once and for eternity settled. As Erik had forewarned, if she did, she might never return. But tomorrow someone would take opera tickets to Freud and immediately thereafter she would have to begin preparing for guests. Tonight, however, was unspoken for.

"Have you any interest in watching the performance this evening?" After all, he hadn't watched his own masterpiece since the night he'd meticulously planned to take his own life dramatically at its close. They hadn't yet seen it _together_. He hadn't seen it since still more of it had come true... Though Christine and Anton could not visit tonight, he could certainly be in their presence. Perhaps Nadir would even join them in the box. Maybe Erik would go above without his mask again...

"No," he told her disinterestedly. "I have seen it before."

She nodded. "Then you shall not wish to see it tomorrow either?" Erik's suddenly appearing in the box and encountering Freud in his seat would not be a good first impression for either of them, she mused.

"No." His voice was far away.

"Then I might let the box to someone?"

He was instantly alert and his eyes fastened to her readily and narrowed. "Why?"

She hadn't expected this. Protective of his territory, wasn't he? "A personal favor. A friendly gesture. It has been sold out..."

He smiled to himself. Sold out. Yes. Again and again. They loved it. Though perhaps not for all the proper reasons, they loved it all the same. "Let him wait," he said. If the whole world would not accept him, perhaps at the very least, it would wait impatiently.

"For this once only, Erik," she continued, then fell into silence.

He shrugged, and she took it for consent. His eyes were narrow, no longer with suspicion but with fatigue. She kissed him on the forehead. "I'll return in a moment."

His eyes flickered open, asked a silent question and closed again.

"To Nadir. For only a moment."

He nodded without opening his eyes again.

Hidden safely away once again, he was now able to relax at last, and with relaxation came the realization that he was sore and tired from his ordeal above. He closed his eyes and must have slept, for when he opened them again, it was to Elizabeth's urging that he move to the bedroom for it was very late.

* * *

Erik lay awake listening to the sounds of the cellar. Anyone else might have called it listening to silence, for the cellars made no creaking sounds as a house does as it settles, there were no sounds of the streets outside as there might be in a city flat, and there were no sounds of insects or nocturnal animals as one would hear in the wilderness. Erik listened, nonetheless, to sounds that only he heard. A faint squeak might be a rat for though there were none within the house, the rest of the cellars were rather infested with them. Repeated high, sharp but soft sounds might be water dripping. Thankfully, there were no rustlings or vocalizations from the room that used to be the torture chamber, and more reassuring still, no rapidly approaching footsteps that indicated he had been discovered. Those could not happen here, for the opera cellars were _safe_. The sound of breathing beside him indicated a woman in the bed—a living wife—even though she was nearly invisible beneath the quilt and in the darkness. Erik lay on his side, his left arm curled beneath his head and looked at the place where he knew she and considered the events of the day yet again. He was confident in the carriage on the way to the hospital. He was slightly annoyed but otherwise fine when Wilhelm approached. He was wildly uncomfortable throughout the lecture, but it had been purely a physical discomfort from the mask. Then there was the crowd, jostling him slightly, but he'd managed it. He should have been quite proud of his efforts actually. Elizabeth was standing outside the hospital talking and he had been thinking... thinking... that all would be well, that with or without meddling doctors she so idolized all was well at last for she was his and he at last belonged to someone. If not for that rotten little boy!

But he had been so polite! It made it harder to hate him, harder to blame him and it frustrated Erik immensely for that meant that he was to blame, he had overreacted, he was the problem. Even so, now was not a time for blame but for reflection. The boy had not seemed afraid, but then, the mask was in place at that time. The second one—he did not count the mob of them individually so here he referred to the one who called to Elizabeth—had asked her to send for help. He couldn't be sure if that one had seen him or not, but even so, he had called for help. It meant perhaps he was wrong about children, but then, who cared about them at all, anyway?

Then there was Elizabeth and then the three. It was not many, but it was a start. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep wondering whether there was the slightest chance of winning the whole world over one individual at a time.

* * *

When he awakened again it was to pressure, desire, and urgency. Had he been dreaming? How long had he slept? He ignored both questions sitting up in the bed, which still felt unusual to him, the covers, also foreign, falling away. He looked again at the space beside him and tried to consider whether to wake her. His mind processed the thought for only a moment and before he could rightfully decide his body had already acted. His hand was upon her shoulder shaking her, gently at first, then more roughly, more urgently until at last he tore her from her dreams. There was a moment in which she simply stared in the darkness, in complete confusion. Then she recognized the bony hand on her shoulder, realized he was shaking her heavily and she was certain something was wrong.

She grabbed his wrist and held it. "I am awake. What is it?"

"Nothing," he told her. "Merely..."

The silence spoke volumes. _What now?_

"I only wanted to ask you."

"Ask me _what?_"

Perhaps she was cross with him for waking her. Perhaps he should lie about his reasons. A terrifying nightmare would be a far better reason, would it not? Perhaps he should apologize, lie back down and pretend to sleep until morning. There was another silence, longer than the first, in which he tried to put the words together. There really wasn't any proper way to say it, so he reached a hand out and ran it down the length of her body, trilling his fingers lightly over the silk of her nightgown. Then, as he dragged them back up over the curve of her hip, "If I asked you tonight... would... you...?"

She sighed. "Of course."

He heard her words, but the sigh suggested otherwise. He withdrew slightly.

"Why didn't you ask me earlier?" she murmured sleepily.

He shrugged. "I didn't think of it earlier." He was just settling back down into the bed, reluctantly surrendering to the fact that it was too late when she embraced him and kissed him. "Is that yes?" he asked her.

"Of course it is yes!" she replied laughing slightly.

But perhaps she was not entirely prepared when gentle Erik who until this time had been so timid was suddenly upon her, fingers tearing at her clothing madly, then abandoning the effort and simply shifting her nightgown up. He kissed her roughly, holding her by the wrists, pressing against her desperately, scarcely able to wait, anticipating the ecstasy—and then she stopped him. He felt as though she had slapped him harshly across the face, though in reality she had merely uttered the words "Erik, wait." He tore himself from her in stunned silence and turned away.

"Erik," she said again. "Do not misunderstand. Precautions, remember?"

He put both hands over his face a moment allowing his mind to come into control once again. Precautions. Yes. That was important. Very important. "Oh yes," he said bitterly. "Precautions. Wouldn't want—" but he stopped himself. He was being nasty and sarcastic for no reason. "I am sorry," he mumbled.

"It takes but a moment," she tried to remind him.

"Yes, I know!" His voice was harsh, though why he was angry he couldn't quite say. When he heard the door to the bathroom open and close he realized in an instant that she hadn't said no. For a moment he considered what she might do if she returned to find him turned away, perhaps even asleep, no longer showing any interest in her. He discarded the thought in an instant. Why punish himself? Instead he reluctantly prepared himself, for there were precautions for him to take as well.

When she returned her voice was soft and her touch gentle. She slid beside him on the bed and pulled him to her. Somehow her tenderness made him angry as well. Did she think he didn't know what to do? Didn't remember? Couldn't figure it out? Did she think she must guide him _every single time_?

He loved her aggressively that night but found little satisfaction in it. When it was finished he turned his back to her and stared into the darkness. He put his face in the pillow angry and ashamed. Would this always bring him to tears this way? He didn't want it to, and this time, he didn't want her to see. He cried silently in his confusion, saturating the pillow cover so that he lay uncomfortably in the wetness of his own tears the remainder of the night, awake and angry. He did not realize that for perhaps an hour after their encounter Elizabeth lay in a similar fashion wondering what had become of gentle Erik who has seemed to so revere her the time before. In seemingly no time at all, he had become like other men.

* * *

In the morning, neither said a word about the night before. It might have been a dream, perhaps. Perhaps the other did not remember. Perhaps if they did not speak of it, they could pretend it had not happened as it had. Instead, they both set to preparing the house on the lake for visitors for during Elizabeth's brief visit to Nadir the evening before, she had suggested it and Nadir agreed. He, at least, would be visiting. The others might join them as well. Erik paced about, rearranged the items on the bookshelf and paced some more. He moved the scorpion (which had graced the table in the parlor since that afternoon Elizabeth said yes) to the bedroom. He double-checked his room to be sure it was locked. It remained dusty and uncared-for—even the organ, which he mildly regretted. Perhaps it was time to simply do something about the coffin and brocaded curtain. Taking down the staves of Dies Irae would take but a moment. The room would not be nearly so disturbing without... Yet he continued to leave it as he had continued to leave the torture chamber all that time until circumstances forced his hand. It seemed that despite all his words to the contrary the past—even a terrible one like his own—was difficult to leave behind. Perhaps especially so when one did not know what to make of the present and had no specific plans for the future.

At present the future consisted of four o'clock at which time Nadir was to arrive, likely bringing the others as well and at which time Elizabeth would undoubtedly serve tea. Erik paced to the edge of the house and almost let himself out, almost went above to fetch a mirror then and there, for he worried how he should appear. Yes, true, they had all seen him the day before and no one had screamed or fainted or died. It was true. It didn't mean they needed to be subjected to it again. And yet, he could not put on that rubber mask, stuck to itself as it was. True, supplies to create a new one had arrived at last, but there was not time between now and four o'clock. A piece of black silk would do nicely, yes. He turned in his pacing and headed back to his room. There were masks enough in there. But he stopped before he got there. Tea. What a mess of silk tea would make. He envisioned himself sitting awkwardly in his own parlor while the party surrounded him eating and drinking, he himself merely sitting. It would be rather like the managers farewell banquet, though he had attended that in merely a false nose. He found himself wandering from the kitchen to the door to his room and back to the kitchen in frustration. Oh yes, a life like everyone else has. To be sure. When something so simple as a drink with friends drove him to distraction!

The false nose it was, for Elizabeth claimed to like its appearance and he had been unkind to her the night before. He waited until she entered the parlor to practice with the cup. He managed it rather as he had the wine; it was not elegant, but the three were not likely to gossip or laugh. Erik paced and considered what he might say when they arrived, assuming they did not change their minds. No, they would not change their minds, he told himself, even as he became certain they would. He forced himself to think of something else and was disturbed at the thoughts that came unbidden to his mind. His brows furrowed and his mouth turned down and when Elizabeth passed through he looked at her sympathetically and quietly asked, "They would be horrifying, would they not?"

She hesitated, a confused expression upon her face. Before she could respond, however, there was a sudden rap upon the wall where the door would surely be had it been an ordinary house, and Erik's expression changed instantly and he rushed to open it.

Outside Nadir was experiencing déjà vu yet again. This time was perhaps the strangest of all, for though he carried no peculiar gifts and had no wedding ceremony to which to hurry, this time, two additional guests stood behind him anxiously anticipating some bizarre variation on a tea party.

The door swung open with its customary urgency and sudden rush of air as it had on the prior two occasions, but this time, with Elizabeth's location firmly in mind, Erik was not at all disappointed to find Nadir at his door. He was, rather, excited to discern the faces of all three of them in the darkness outside. Such was his delight that they had actually arrived that for a moment he stood rigid in the doorway unable to move. Then he addressed them each in turn, ushering them in, thanking them for coming, forcing down his emotion in an effort to act normal."

They managed to settle in the parlor, the first time the furniture in the parlor had all been used at once since it was brought to this place, and Erik marveled at that fact while Christine noticed that the atmosphere of the room was different somehow and Nadir glanced as casually as he could at Erik.

How strange it was to see Erik's face—his real face—while he was not trying to be deliberately fearful. Nadir noticed readily that Erik had the lights of the parlor slightly dimmed, but not so much so that it could be believed he could not be seen. Here, today, with that pleased smile on his face his appearance was nearly ridiculous but certainly not frightening, and he wondered at Elizabeth's plans to take him above. How would people react? Would anyone remember the description of the Opera Ghost and recognize him? Would people still comment behind their hands as they once had? Yes _Erik_ had changed, but _the world_ had not. Would his appearance in public with Elizabeth at his side by daylight instead of alone at dusk make the difference? One could hope, but given Erik's disappearance yesterday, Nadir entertained doubts. The extent of Erik's social life would, perhaps, be confined to only those who could visit him here in the cellars. It was sad to think on, yes, but it was still more a life than he had had previously; perhaps he could be happy here yet.

Christine scarcely looked at Erik, keeping her eyes downcast demurely, and only occasionally looking shyly up at him and then down again, but this afternoon Erik didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it was enough that she made the effort, or perhaps the love of one woman undid the rejection by another. Whatever the case, Erik was obviously pleased, and though he looked somewhat nervous, the anxiety abated in time for all were people he had known long enough, who had proven themselves not to be a danger. Ultimately, the afternoon was at least as successful as tea in the house on the outskirts of town had been; moreso, if one considers that Erik survived this particular encounter without the aid of a mask to hide behind.

When it was time for them to go at last, Erik followed them to the door handing the men their coats and helping Christine with her shawl as though they were actually departing out of doors rather than to merely another part of the same cellar. From the cellar they would make their way above, but they would not be going out or doors for many hours for there was a performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ tonight. He sighed as he closed the door and looked back at his foyer, his parlor. One could _almost _imagine it was a real house. It was dark beyond the door, yes, but one might imagine his guests had stayed late and were departing at night. He sighed. It was peculiar, though. For years he had commented that opera was merely a poor imitation of life; now it seemed that his life imitated something else, for nothing in his life seemed truly real. His house, his friends, afternoon tea, the door, the darkness beyond... all was decidedly surreal. He sunk to the sofa, deep in thought.

He was still sitting there, silent and pensive, hours later as five levels above Sigmund Freud was shown to a seat in box five.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Thanks to all who reviewed last time. I sincerely appreciate it. Any comments you can provide are always very helpful and very much appreciated. Thanks in advance.

**Author's Parting Comment:** To those in the younger crowd who were wondering what type of precautions Erik and Elizabeth could possibly take I'd like to point out that birth control has existed at LEAST since Biblical times and evidence shows longer. I was envisioning something along the lines of a natural condom and something called a womb veil, but I would never EVER point that into a story because it would surely embarrass our very private and Victorian-influenced character who would never talk about such things. I guess they've rubbed off on me as I am rather mortified even to be posting this little comment here. Goodness! What's happened to me? (As a matter of fact, I take that back... I was IMAGINING, not envisioning. No, I wasn't even imagining... just speculating. I was NOT in any way attempting to picture this as I was writing it. No thanks, sorry, not at the moment, no...)


	126. Chapter 126: Disconnect

**Author's Note:** I am posting this a day early because I'm impatient and desperately crave reader interaction. On Wednesday an idea for a brief one-shot explaining Erik's use of the words "my dead wife" hit me on the way to work and when I got home I simply had to type and post it. (If you haven't read it yet and you don't mind something a bit dark, please check it out. It's an excerpt from what will eventually be my version of the prequel to POTO.) The reviews that clicked in after it was posted were such a charge that I really did TRY to post this chapter Thursday. It just wasn't ready. But I'm going to try much harder now to post more often because I really _really_ miss you guys and all your comments. I very much WANT to post again tomorrow (Sunday) but I have to go to a birthday party tonight and a funeral tomorrow (talk about a difficult transition) so I don't know how much time I'll have. Hang in there with me. I post extras as often as I can.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. Sometimes, I fear it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure.

**An important question:** Does anyone know what happens if you delete a chapter? Let's say, for example, that I delete chapter 125 of Therapeutic and post a new version of it WITHOUT using the replace feature. Let's just SAY I did that... would it delete the reviews you left for that chapter as well? I know if I delete a whole STORY it deletes the reviews, yes... but if I only delete the chapter...

**Fair Warning:** I might try that with the first review that comes through for this chapter. I might delete the chapter and see if the review stays or not. There's a reason why...

**Good News:** Two of you reviewed before I deleted the chapter, and it didn't delete your reviews. I suppose I'll wait a little while longer and see if they disappear or not. This is, to me anyway, good news. If any other writers out there are curious, it seems you CAN delete a chapter (not a story, mind you, but a chapter) without losing your feedback.

* * *

To say that Doctor Sigmund Freud was impressed with Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_ would be like suggesting that the Opera itself was a nice little theatre; it would far surpass understatement. During the production the young doctor alternated between rapt attention and furious jotting in the pad he kept at all times in his coat pocket.

He spent the carriage ride back to his hotel near the hospital scribbling notes on desire and denial, on strict morality and the consequences of repression. He had become so involved in the plot that he partially missed the music and regretted that it might not be possible to get tickets to see it again, but he scarcely acknowledged his own disappointment as he wildly scrawled notes regarding what he perceived to be two facets of the same character, the same individual—one part that encompassed moral principles and one that was comprised purely of the most base desires: food and drink, comfort, and of course, sexual pleasure. He fairly ran to his room, hurriedly lit a lamp and began writing once again.

What the good doctor wrote that evening (and far into the morning hours) would eventually become one of his most well-known works on the id, superego, and ego, but those terms were not yet clear in his mind that night by the dim lamp.

Nor had he coined them by the following morning when he inquired of the managers of the Opera how and when it might be possible to contact the composer of the _Don Juan Triumphant_, mentioning that he had met the man's wife quite by accident a few days earlier and she had indicated it might be possible.

LeBlanc and Fournier stared at him and then glanced at each other in consternation, for to their knowledge they had never met the composer. In his rubber mask Erik had been known to nearly everyone as a manager of sorts, a director, perhaps, in a supervisory role due to musical expertise. That he was indeed the composer he had revealed to only one person—Anton—on the day he first presented him with three masks. As Anton was not present at that early hour when Freud presented himself, and as Fournier and LeBlanc could not possibly have had the slightest idea whom to ask had he been there, Freud received the standard reply: the work was composed by someone anonymous; no one knew the name of the composer, nor whether or not the man had a wife. Indeed, if a woman told monsieur that she was married to the composer—and what woman wouldn't wish to be, they joked, elbowing one another slightly, then clearing their throats and adopting a more business-like tone—she might have been anyone, but it was highly unlikely this one in particular was truthful.

Freud left the Opera confounded that he had fallen for such a miserable trick.

But at the top of the steps he turned back. If the woman had lied to him, from where did the tickets to the private box come? She had admitted her husband was a bit of a recluse and suggested that claim was a bit understated. Perhaps then, even the managers of the Opera did not know who he really was. How then was he to find him—or his wife for that matter? She had not seemed to think such would be a problem. She had indicated that her husband would likely have gone directly from the hospital to the Opera, and the very next day an employee—or so he assumed—had delivered a message indicating that a box was available and reserved especially for him and anyone he might wish to accompany him that evening if he would present himself at the box office promptly. He frowned in consternation, re-entered and located the box office, which was closed at this early hour. He checked the posted hours then found a cafe where he enjoyed a hearty breakfast, then meandered through the streets sight-seeing and people-watching until close to the time the box office was to open again. With any luck, he'd encounter the same attendant he had the night before and the man would remember him. It would not locate the composer, no, but it would get him a step closer, perhaps.

Sadly, he was wrong about this as well, for the attendant who had worked the night prior did not work during the day, forcing the young Austrian to explain to someone entirely unfamiliar with the events of the night before that he had been provided with a letter and special instructions and that a box had been held for him the night before by the request of a lady. He merely wished to contact that lady; perhaps he could leave for her a letter, which the attendant could provide to her when she next made contact. Alas, the description of Elizabeth was entirely unknown to the attendant.

"Surely someone has made her acquaintance," he explained as calmly as possible considering the strange turn of events. He described her. "She is perhaps married to the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant_—" (here the box office attendant gave him a wild look as though he were perhaps slightly touched in the head) "at least, she claims to be married to the composer of _Don Juan Triumphant._" (and the attendant's peculiar expression changed only slightly) "At any rate she cannot be entirely unknown here for last night's performance was sold out entirely" (this the attendant confirmed—as were nearly all upcoming performances) "and yet she provided me with a letter which, when I presented it last night resulted in my being immediately shown to a private box which I was to have entirely to myself!"

The box office attendant's eyes plainly showed disbelief, and not the joyous surprised disbelief of someone who has received wondrous news but the skeptical disbelief of a person who believes that he is being either defrauded or spoken to by a lunatic, or both. He immediately inquired whether he might see the letter, but the strange man with the foreign accent claimed that the employee to whom he had given it the night before had kept it. "Of course," he said, patronizingly. "And to what box was it that you were shown last night Monsieur?"

"A box on the first level, near the left side of the stage. Box five, it was, I believe."

At this the box office attendant let out a loud guffaw for which he immediately apologized while politely restraining further laughter. "Box five!" he exclaimed. Then in a quieter tone he went on. "Quite sorry, Monsieur, but it simply isn't possible. Box five is never—I repeat—absolutely _never_ let to anyone on account of superstition."

"Superstition!" Freud was incredulous. And then he uttered the absurd: "What has superstition to do with opera?"

The attendant apologized again but made it quite clear that he could be of no further assistance. He rather hoped the strange man would be on his way quickly for the Opera's current policy of never selling box five had been rather successful. Apparently a profit was made without it: salaries were fair, there was no talk of reductions in staff, and, most importantly, nothing supernatural had happened since the newest opera opened. It was just like some foreigner, though, to come in spouting nonsense about sitting in the accursed box five and bringing about some terrible calamity. The attendant shivered just to think on it as the disgruntled Austrian exited the Opera to once again explore the city.

* * *

All this time the individuals for whom he searched were directly below him in the darkness of the cellars, still undisturbed in their sleep. When Erik opened his eyes, he found himself protectively curled around Elizabeth. His back was to the door of the Louis Philippe room and she on the side of the bed he faced. He had one arm wrapped around her waist and the rest of his body wrapped around hers as well as though he feared someone might take her away if he loosened his hold. His face was near her hair, her back pressing against his chest, their legs entwined. He closed his eyes a moment in an attitude of thanks. She was still here. Yet another day and still she remained, regardless of his ill behavior and terrible manners. He squeezed her gently. Still here. And warm. _And alive._

_And awake_ now that he had squeezed her so. He took advantage of the fact that if she was already awake he did not risk waking her to run his fingers through her hair. She smiled and tipped her head back towards him. He was gentle Erik once again. He kissed her indiscriminately wherever he could reach and she not only allowed it but seemed to crave more of it. Apparently she had forgiven him once again.

Why did such a chaste concept suddenly fill him with such wanton desires? He would not act upon them this time he vowed, but a moment later he realized his hands were disobeying him, roaming freely about her body, and he froze in sudden fear. What if his body were beyond the control of his mind now? It was dangerous when that happened. What if he hurt her? He drew his hands to himself and rolled over to face the door. Naturally, she noticed something was amiss and followed him, silently asking the question by putting her arms around him and her head upon his shoulder. When his only response was a sigh, she pressed him: "_Tell_ me."

Well, how was he to tell her _that_? What could he possibly say? It's all I think about. I can think of nothing else. From the moment I wake until the moment I lie down to try to force myself to sleep... But no! She would think him—and then it occurred to him so suddenly, so clearly that he could not conceive of the fact that it had not occurred to him earlier. There was only one other man on earth whom it seemed thought of _nothing but that_. And _wrote _about it no less!

"In the carriage that night," he said suddenly. "You asked me to meet someone."

"Yes," she murmured.

"When?"

She lifted her head and blinked at him sleepily. "Whenever." Her voice was a low sound in his ear as she nestled closer to him.

"Now," he said emphatically, throwing back the quilts. "Today." He was on his feet and bustling about, lighting lamps and making such a racket that even after she pulled the quilt over her head it was impossible to go back to sleep.

"In a few hours," she suggested.

He stood beside the bed and looked down at her. "I don't have a few hours," he told her. "Now." He was emphatic without being rude. "I'll go myself. I can't live like this anymore."

At this she sat up suddenly. He'd go? Alone? Like _that_? She could have leapt for joy and yet something held her back, made her want to go in his place. "All right," but she was already up and moving about the room as though preparing to accompany him.

"Why do you look so worried?"

Did it show? Well, it seemed neither of them could manage to hide anything anymore! "How will you find him? You're going to go back to the hospital after the way you left the last time?"

He considered this a moment.

"He doesn't know you, Erik. He's met me at least. How do you intend to introduce yourself? Had you thought that far ahead?"

He regarded her with an expression that bordered on anger for just a moment, then sunk to sit on the edge of the bed. "No, I hadn't. What does that prove?"

"Prove? It doesn't prove anything. I was just saying—"

"You were just saying you don't want me to go above alone like this," he splayed the fingers of his right hand beneath his chin indicating his face "after all you've said to me since you first came here was 'it's not so bad,' and 'leave the mask off.' Honestly, I don't think you know what you want." He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward to put his head in his hands.

She frowned at him. "Of course I know what I want. It's just—complicated."

He glanced up.

"I... I want you to have whatever you want. You say you want to live like everyone else. So I want you to. So yes. Go above. Unmasked. It's what I want. But... not if it's going to make you nervous, make you run for cover every time something a little out of the ordinary happens. If that's the way it's going to be, then I want you to stay here."

He sighed. "Then I'll stay here."

She regretted it terribly. "Oh Erik," she murmured crossing the room to rub his shoulder affectionately.

"You'll send for him then?"

"Absolutely. I'll go for him myself."

"Today?"

"Now."

He looked at her. She was still dressed for sleeping and her hair was disheveled. He smiled. He couldn't help it. He even managed a laugh that sounded rather like a snort.

"Well, in a bit then," she said indignantly, stalking off to make herself ready. He paced, then did likewise.

* * *

When Elizabeth left the house on the lake she took the route to Nadir's office and explained her dilemma. Erik was to have a guest, but one to whom the house on the lake could not possibly be revealed. Therefore she would need a place in which the visit could occur. She further ordained that the room must absolutely contain a fainting couch in addition to the customary chairs. The room must be in a remote area where they were unlikely to encounter anyone else and where no one would overhear anything that might be said. It must be small enough to seem intimate but large enough to... well... large enough that... suffice to say Erik would be one of the people in the room.

Nadir considered all this curiously wondering especially about the fainting couch. Surely Elizabeth was not daft enough to bring into Erik's presence anyone who was likely to immediately faint away, but Nadir could not conceive for what other purpose it might need to be there. He knew better than to ask questions at this point but instead set to have the furniture moved right away. He and Darius moved it themselves in the end, for if the rendezvous was to take place in secret, it wouldn't do to speak to anyone who might not know better than to ask why a fainting couch was necessary.

* * *

As Elizabeth set off to the hospital for what she hoped would be the last time, Erik paced the floor and at last unlocked the door to his room. He leaned in the doorway. His room. He could scarcely call it his any longer. It looked foreign. Even its smell was alien, which was curious, for he'd never thought it had an odor before. He glanced sadly at the organ, covered with dust. Something must be done about that. The coffin was there where he left it, its lid closed, the original copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and the hasty will he'd scrawled before opening night carelessly thrust inside. Something would have to be done about that as well. The will did not include Elizabeth. Or Christine. Or take into account the fact that he could still not be certain if his encounter with Elizabeth the day after their wedding would lead to... well... something. He shuddered at the thought and carefully opened the coffin.

The hinges squeaked loudly and it startled him. He cocked his head to the side. They had never squeaked so before! Surely everything here was in disrepair now. He swept together the loose papers that lay inside, withdrew them, put them atop the organ and closed the lid of the coffin once more noticing with some consternation, that he'd gotten his clothing quite dusty in the process. He took off his jacket and laid it aside absentmindedly realizing too late that as everything was covered in dust, he had made matters worse. No matter. He would simply need to dress again. With that thought he disregarded his clothing further and pushed the coffin aside and then—_out_. Out the door and down the hall and into the room that was always locked, a storage area of sorts where until now he'd stored nothing of value—merely boxes in which were things that he did not wish to think about. He put the coffin in there with those, closed and relocked the door and went back to his room—or the 'other' room.

He stood a long moment in the doorway and looked at the organ, at the walls, the curtains, the canopy, and at last with a cry he seized the musical staff and the black curtains and tore them down. _Dies Irae_ indeed he thought angrily. Yes, it was still terrible to look like death, but he had not allowed himself even a moment to forget it all those years. The canopy and the red brocade came down with a shower of dust that set him coughing madly, but he dragged them and the black curtains and musical staves through hacking breaths out the door and across the hall once again. In an instant the seldom-used door to the room which stored away all other unpleasantries was open and shut, unlocked and relocked, the funerary decorations hidden away forever.

His room—perhaps someday it could be his again: not a room for sleeping, no, not unless Elizabeth sent him away some evening, but for music—looked bare and empty now. He would need something else to cover the trapdoor in the floor that hid the precious jewels; perhaps a Persian rug... But the walls were bare and the room empty but for the wardrobe and the organ. The _dusty _neglected organ. A pity. He found a soft cloth and set to polishing it.

* * *

Meanwhile a little over five kilometers away, Elizabeth listened as a pale-faced clerk explained that Dr. Freud would not be in today. She turned to leave, utterly exasperated.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****: **Naturally, I want to hear from you... but so much happened this chapter right? It could have been three separate much shorter chapters, but I thought that'd be unkind. So here's a quick review! 1) Freud attempted, unsuccessfully, to locate Elizabeth at the Opera. I had fun writing this bit. 2) Erik and Elizabeth had a morning of contradictions and awkward conversations surrounding whether or not Erik should be out in public and so forth. 3) Nadir sets up an analysts' office in a relatively unused wing and 4) Erik starts redecorating. Or at least, _un_decorating. Or something. Poor Erik! 5) Elizabeth arrives at the Opera and alas—no Freud! Please comment. I _live _for the comments.


	127. Chapter 127: Beginnings

**Author's Note:** I am posting mid-week (heck... Monday isn't even mid-week... okay... this is almost a double post. Recall I posted Saturday and said I would try to post again on Sunday... well, here's the next helping) because I really love the feedback and also because I really need to move the story along (because we're supposed to have been done by now). BUT, I fell down the stairs at work today and sprained my foot. So, since my foot is throbbing, I'm going to go lie down. That means this chapter is not as edited as my chapters usually are. I apologize if there's anything stupid or any glaring errors here. Additionally, assuming my foot does not hurt too badly, I expect to post the next couple of chapters pretty quickly because a portion of this is already written. Everyone cross your fingers.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. Sometimes, I fear it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure.

* * *

Naturally, the clerk could provide Elizabeth no information on the whereabouts of the good doctor, even had he known. Elizabeth reluctantly admitted to herself in a quiet corner of her mind that Wilhelm's acquaintance had garnered her many things over the years and perhaps that was why until recently she had put up with his frustrating behaviors. Of course, there was also the fact that he had become more frustrating of late. He had once been quite kind. Perhaps it was years or perhaps it was experience. She frowned sharply at the thought that perhaps it was she herself. Could she possibly have been the source of such frustration? She would have said no in an instant but that she knew her Erik was kind and gentle and yet Christine's indecision had driven him to dishonest means. Had she perhaps driven Wilhelm to the same lengths, albeit different methods? It is not our fault, though, she thought desperately. No, it is not good for man to be alone, but a man must find the correct woman, not relentlessly pursue one who does not wish to be captured.

She paced about the hospital lobby then inquired whether there was the chance that Dr. Freud would be in later. The response was non-committal. What was her interest and did she wish to schedule an appointment with him? Was she related to a patient? Would she like to leave a card? Elizabeth sighed and stepped out. She considered the area around the hospital. Depending on how long he expected to stay, the doctor might be in a hotel or he might have an apartment. He could even have rented a house. She would have very little luck finding his residence without at least a clue or a starting point. She considered the clerk's suggestion that she leave a card. Though she didn't have a card to leave, she could at least write her name and request—well, she couldn't really request that he call on her at her residence, for at present her only address lay five levels beneath the street. She could suggest he visit her at the Opera, but only Nadir knew how to find her. That would be only option, she realized. She would have to suggest he contact Nadir first. She returned to the clerk and carefully penned a short note.

Luck was on her side that afternoon, however, for having had such poor fortune in attempting to locate the now apparently mysterious woman who had frantically accosted him in the sidewalk as she passed by in the arms of another doctor, Sigmund Freud was returning to his room to relax for the afternoon. When he stopped by the hospital briefly with the intention of picking up some files to study, he was rather surprised to encounter the same lady walking down the front steps and nearly into him, so distracted she was. When she recognized him, however, she quickly extended her hand.

She was wearing a gray dress and almost faded out entirely against the pavement and the overcast sky. If she were not grasping his hand so eagerly at the moment, indeed, if she had not run directly into him, he might not have noticed she was there at all. She had seemed to materialize from nowhere, and he remembered that no one at the Opera seemed to know of her and that the box she had lent him was never let to anyone due to superstition. He wondered at her sudden appearance as he peered at her curiously. "Well, if it isn't—" he paused.

"Elizabeth," she said, meeting his eyes. "Dr. Freud."

"Sigmund."

"Sigmund, then."

Before she could say more, indeed, as she stood there wondering how to broach the subject outside on the front steps of the hospital, he said quickly "I attempted to find you this morning but was quite unsuccessful. This is such a pleasant surprise!"

She smiled and cast aside the sentence she'd been putting together in her mind in favor of another. "You were searching for me? Whatever for?"

"Well—" here he abruptly realized he was making a lady stand awkwardly on the steps to speak with him. "I'm sorry. Would you like to come in?" He waved at the hospital.

She cringed. She didn't really want to run into Jean-Martin Charcot yet again. Or _Wilhelm_. "I was... actually... on my way to the Opera..." she stammered noncommittally.

He turned about towards the street. "Oh you were! Might I join you then?"

A smile spread across her face. "Why, of course!" How fortunate, she thought, that she did not have to convince him! She allowed him to lead her back to the street.

"Elizabeth," he said, maneuvering to the street "when we spoke last," he glanced up and down the street, presumably looking for a carriage, then turned to the left and began up the street at a steady clip "that afternoon here when you came to me..."

"Yes?" She was trotting to match his pace taking two steps to his one long stride.

"You mentioned your husband."

"Yes."

"I... Forgive me if I misheard you. I thought you said he composed _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

"He did."

He stopped so suddenly that she took two more steps past him and had to turn back.

"Yes, he did," she said again.

"How can it be," he began in a philosophical tone "that no one at the Opera has heard of him?"

She laughed aloud and they began walking again. "They don't know him." Well, that sounded preposterous. "They don't know his name," she tried again. "Rather, very few people know him, and they are not the people you would easily encounter."

"I spoke to the managers."

Elizabeth reflected a moment. Had he spoke to Nadir? Nadir would surely lie for Erik. He'd done it before. "A dark skinned gentleman? Persian accent?"

He raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. "No. Two Frenchmen."

She frowned deeply. No, _she _hadn't even met _them_. This would be awkward, then. She'd become so used to coming and going through the many various paths to and through the Opera that it had never occurred to her to realize that she knew scarcely anyone there! "Perhaps it will all make sense later," she said without any real hope that it would.

Their pace slowed as both became more thoughtful. "Will your husband be meeting you there?"

Elizabeth glanced at the man at her side. It seemed an innocuous enough question. "I hope so," she responded.

If he had been paying closer attention he might have questioned her more carefully, but it was at this moment that a carriage trotted by going in the correct direction and he hailed it. Once they were inside and seated she changed the subject back to her original question, which had not been answered. "Why were you looking for me?"

If she wasn't mistaken he looked positively uncomfortable. "I was hoping you would ask him—your husband, that is—if he would consider speaking with me. I found the performance last night—or, more specifically the story the performance told and the message it conveyed—quite ponderous."

Elizabeth smiled to herself. "I rather think there is a chance he might be available to speak with you today," she said softly. How incredibly fortunate indeed for Erik. Whatever Erik had planned to tell the man—or ask the man—he could bring up in conversation _after_ they talked about the opera. She idly wondered what questions the doctor might have about the opera, and a moment later she wondered what it was that suddenly drove Erik to leap out of bed requesting to see the man. She would not have to wait long to find out, though, as the carriage was progressing at a steady pace. She took the opportunity to prepare the doctor as Doctor Treves of London had once prepared her.

"I am sure he'll be pleased to speak with you, but he's a bit eccentric," she said carefully. "He'll likely wear a mask, and frankly, I doubt it will be the one he wore the afternoon you observed him at the hospital."

"Oh?"

"I'm not entirely certain of his mood today as I didn't get much time with him this morning, so I can't say for certain, but I imagine he'll be amenable enough to meeting with you. Just don't ask him to take his mask off. And if you ask him a question and he refuses to answer it, whatever you choose to do, do not ask it again. What more, now? He's not fond of speaking about the past, though very occasionally one catches him in a mood to do so. Oh yes. Most importantly!" How could she forget? It had been the focus of Treves's entire speech! "And if for some reason he does take off his mask, you shall find it in your soul not to react. When I visited Joseph Merrick in London, Frederick Treves warned me quite harshly that there was to be no fainting or screaming. I would add that there must be no surprised looks, no quietly amazed utterances under your breath, and certainly no pitying comments. Dare I say no awkward staring but at the same time, try not to look away."

"Indeed. And you truly believe that I would have cause to react in this way?"

She threw up her hands. "I do not know. I cannot remember what he looks like to a stranger any longer."

"Surely it is not so bad as you say," he suggested. "Surely you over-prepare visitors so that they are pleasantly relieved upon their actual acquaintance."

She shrugged noncommittally. She didn't think it wise to admit that Erik hadn't had any new visitors in the time she had known him. Indeed, she rather considered that perhaps it would have been best had she said nothing at all. She wondered if perhaps she was guilty of doing to this man what Treves had done to her—making the visit less rather than more comfortable. She fell absolutely silent and did not say another word until they arrived. Elizabeth rapidly led her guest down a corridor without going anywhere near the box office. She located Nadir easily enough. "Our room?" she asked quickly, then indicated the man she brought with her. "Erik's visitor." She rather enjoyed the shocked expression on Nadir's face that subsided momentarily as he led them down a seldom used hall and into a sitting room containing a few chairs, a fainting couch, a small table and not much more.

"Shall I go and get Erik for you?" Nadir asked her quietly at the doorway.

"No, I'd better go," she said quickly. "Could you arrange for someone to bring coffee? Perhaps," she said glancing back "an ashtray?"

Nadir nodded and started off as Elizabeth made her way below.

Upon entering the house on the lake the first thing Elizabeth noticed was a pungent odor that permeated the entire structure. The second thing, naturally, was that Erik was not anywhere to be seen readily. She moved through the house opening and closing doors. She found him easily enough, however, as she proceeded down the hall for the door to his room... _that_ room, which he had previously agreed to keep locked... was curiously open. She glanced inside. What she saw both thrilled and despaired her. Erik was kneeling on the floor, still polishing the fine wood of the pipe organ with a cloth that was drenched in some foul smelling substance the fumes of which filled the air. His coat lay across the wardrobe which, from the looks of it had not been dusted or polished yet. Erik was disheveled but working at a pace that suggested he was rather pleased with himself. She leaned in the doorway watching him. His right hand held the cloth, which he rubbed furiously with the grain of the wood. His left occasionally caressed the polished surfaces almost lovingly. If he was aware of her presence, he gave no indication. The coffin was nowhere to be seen—a delight!—and the dark curtains that further emphasized the funerary atmosphere of the room were gone. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows so she watched his hands, his arms, the muscles beneath the skin working as his arms moved back and forth... She grinned; he was such a joy to watch! And yet, he was hardly presentable to his guest above. She was loathe to interrupt him, and yet...

"Erik!" Her voice was a loud whisper.

He turned and she felt her heart stop a moment. He was smiling and his eyes _shone_.

"It looks wonderful!" She approached him where he knelt on the floor and sunk to her knees as well. "_You_ look wonderful," she murmured, putting her arms around him a disregard for the dust and the filthy rag in his hand.

"So kind," he told her. "But do you mean it about the room? The room is better this way?" He looked concerned. "It is rather bare," he admitted.

She couldn't do more than laugh. "It doesn't matter," she said. The coffin was gone. _That_ was what mattered. "But Erik!" she suddenly remembered. "You... you sent me for someone. Recall?" He looked at her, then down at his hands, then back at her and sighed. He hadn't really expected the man to agree to meet him, had he? He wasn't sure what he expected at all. He cast the rag aside and gave the organ a cursory glance from a distance. It would do for now. He would finish it later. As to himself, he thought, glancing down, that was a different story entirely. His present appearance would not do, not if he expected to present himself as someone even vaguely resembling normal.

"He actually came?" he wondered aloud as he brushed off the shirt he was wearing with hands that made it more rather than less soiled. The act was entirely unnecessary; the shirt would need to be changed no matter what.

"He did."

"On a moment's notice?" Then he glanced at the clock "Or perhaps not..."

"He came as soon as he was able." It wasn't a lie. Apparently he had come hours earlier before they were ready for him.

Erik swallowed heavily. It had been easy to stand in the bedroom and announce that he was going above to look for the man, but it was quite another to stand below and realize the man was here, waiting for him. Had he gone, he could have changed his mind, returned, insisted the man was too busy; now he was trapped. But it had to be done eventually anyway, did it not? It was that or continually fight that war within.

He opened the wardrobe and stood a long time staring into it. It was in the wrong room, wasn't it? He rubbed his near-bare head curiously. Now he would have to rearrange all the furniture, and the Louis Philippe room was perhaps not big enough. Such frustrations. He grumbled as he went from room to room carrying various articles of clothing. This was not at all efficient.

But soon enough he was prepared to go above after scrubbing his hands repeatedly to no avail. He chuckled and wondered how his life might have been different if he'd gone to Christine that first night smelling of bees wax and furniture polish. He was almost in high spirits by the time he reached the door to which Elizabeth lead him.

* * *

Freud was already comfortably settled into one of the chairs in the room, had already discovered the ashtray and quickly made use of it by lighting a cigar. This cigar was slightly more than half-smoked by the time Elizabeth led Erik to the door. Elizabeth had said nothing at all to Erik of the fact that Freud had apparently sought them out earlier that morning and wanted very much to talk with him. Nor had she indicated to Freud, once she realized that he wished to speak to Erik, that Erik had likewise expressed a desire to speak with him. As a result, when Erik entered the room, wavering somewhere between timid and intimidating, each man thought the other was doing him a favor, going out of his way, interrupting his busy schedule for the sake of the other's special request. Erik entered hesitantly, a little disheartened that the other was already seated and he walking in. There was a fainting couch here he noticed and he could readily guess why Elizabeth brought that in, but he was positively not going to lie down on that, he determined. It would put him in too vulnerable a position. His eyes flicked to a chair, but before he could ease his way into it, the other stood and greeted him. There was an brief informal self-introduction of sorts in which they determined to use one another's first names, for Erik was only Erik; he was not going to divulge that truth on a random whim to the first psychoanalyst who happened to happen by.

Freud acknowledged a preference for the informal, for Erik's calling him Sigmund, though Erik rather resolved that there was no need to utter the man's name. He was the only other body in the room. If Erik spoke, surely it was to him.

Erik noticed, though, that this man Sigmund kept his tone light acted like he was asking Erik's permission for something. It was undoubtedly some trick, Erik resolved, and he folded his arms and waited for the other to say something. Oh, yes, he had surely planned—practiced even in his head—addressing the man as "Doctor" and telling him quite plainly that he had a problem the solution to which he hoped he could be of assistance, but all those thoughts faded instantly when he saw the arrogant young man casually slouched in one of his chairs and nonchalantly smoking a cigar. Erik peered through the black silk mask and waited for the other to speak.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** (As usual)


	128. Chapter 128: Balance

**Author's Note:** HA HA HA! This chapter was SUCH fun. Of course, it was also an absolute struggle, but all good things in life are worth struggling for, are they not? Very little romance and such in this one, but every now and again one enjoys and introspective Erik. Perhaps there is hope for our dear Opera Ghost yet. This chapter is a bit early. It's Saturday at about 2:30. My foot is still aching, so there's not much I can do in the way of going out or even getting up and cleaning my house, so that means I'll be writing for a good portion of the rest of today. I might work on this, or I might work on something completely different and non-fanfiction related, so if you WANT another chapter of this by tomorrow, please make sure to let me know so that I can focus on this instead of that. Thanks!

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. Sometimes, I fear it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure.

* * *

"I really appreciate your agreeing to meet with me on short notice," the doctor—_Sigmund_—was saying enthusiastically. "You must be a very busy man. As we are all busy men, I surely understand what it must have taken to make yourself available like this. I won't keep you long, I assure you."

Erik smiled beneath his mask. The man was _thanking_ him? Then there was more to this visit than he'd thought. What _had_ the man discussed with Elizabeth last time they spoke? What reason could he possibly have to wish to speak with Erik? But it gave Erik the chance—the opportunity—to be like other men, for he was being treated as such. Sarcasm, while it might be entertaining, would not further his cause, nor would it work to his advantage when the time came to perhaps ask this man for favors. Erik was not a fool. He smiled a little wider, for though the other could not see it; smiling had the effect of making one's voice sound pleasanter; even amateurs knew this simple fact. "I am certain it is no trouble," he told the other. Then he paused. He had been about to state that he had no plans for the day, but he remembered the organ and the wardrobe, all the furniture that needed moving, the smallness of the rooms and the possibility of knocking out walls below. It would have been a lie. "It is no trouble at all," he said again instead.

The other grinned at him and put out his cigar heavily in the ashtray. "So glad to hear it," he said. "I hoped you might allow me to presume to ask some questions about _Don Juan Triumphant_," the other began, but Erik suddenly sat up straighter than before and lifted a hand to interrupt him.

"What do you know of _Don Juan Triumphant_," he asked.

"Well, only what the casual opera-goer knows of it, I assure you, and that is rather the trouble. You raise some—"

Erik could not help but interrupt. "You've seen it, then?"

"Indeed, I have. Just last night actually." He laughed at his own impatience. "And here I am already this afternoon! Truly, I would have sought you out last night had I thought there the slightest chance you might be here that late in the evening, but I managed to wait until this morning."

Erik was frowning in confusion beneath the mask. The man sought _him _out? He said nothing in response to that. _Just last night_? But it wasn't possible unless... _Elizabeth_, his mind readily supplied. She had lent his private box to _this _man? Had she remained in the room he'd have given her one of his special menacing looks for that. She hadn't said to whom she would lend it, though as he reflected now, it made sense. She mentioned him in the carriage and later that night she requested the box. Erik rolled his eyes in secret behind his protective silk screen. That woman, he thought.

He forced himself to smile. "How did you enjoy my private box?"

Now it was the doctor's turn to be perplexed. If the box was reserved for the composer, what was this nonsense about superstition? But he said nothing about it for he was an intelligent man and even as he wondered about it, another part of his mind recalled that the individual seated in front of him was "a very private man." Indeed, one must be quite beyond merely private to produce a work so spectacular and decline to put one's name upon it. He might well prefer the Opera employees not know for whom the box was reserved. And if they leapt to wild and superstitious conclusions, well, so be it. It would keep them out of the box, would it not? He smiled at the thought. "It was splendid," he said instead. "Best seat in the house, I presume."

Naturally, thought Erik silently. Would I settle for less?

On the other hand, perhaps he kept his name from being associated with the work due to the scandalous nature of the content, which was, after all, the reason for this little visit. Why they were having this visit in the Opera, though, instead of some private parlor somewhere was baffling in and of itself, the doctor thought, and he almost said so, but a glance at the black piece of silk where the face should have been reminded him that this man was indeed very secretive. It was no surprise that he would not want to reveal where he lived. And perhaps, if he were to reveal anything at all about the nature of his work, he would have to be flattered still more.

"Far superior to the accommodations themselves was the performance. The music was spectacular, the talent incredible, but both are surpassed entirely by the apparent creative genius behind the work."

Erik settled back more comfortably into his chair. Such kind words, he reflected. He'd heard too few of them in his life. They might be false at that. Perhaps this man—and every word from his mouth—was entirely false, but if that were true then at least his false persona was an amiable one enough. "It took over a decade to write it," he confided. Just under _two_ decades, actually, but he didn't need to reveal _every_thing.

"It does not surprise me in the least. To capture passion such as that in words and music, one might expect it should take a lifetime." His voice conveyed quiet awe and Erik decided that perhaps the kind words were not mere falsities. He allowed himself to feel pride at the praise, though guardedly, carefully, as thought it might be taken back or flung in his face in an instant.

"I am pleased it's been well-received," he said softly. It was partly true. Certainly he'd insisted it was not for them and they did not deserve it, but as they had accepted Don Juan, he entertained just the faintest hope that possibly they would project their sympathy for the character onto himself and maybe, just perhaps someday in some small way there was a chance that they would at least tolerate his presence.

There was a silence. It was a long, uncomfortable silence the likes of which the young doctor was surely used to, though perhaps he was not so used to someone regarding him so unflinchingly through such a silence as with a patient he would have been out of sight.

It was more than just an uncomfortable silence, though; it was a sorrowful silence for as Erik's thoughts lingered over his faint hope, he told himself once again that it was not possible, was not going to happen, was a ridiculous dream. He sighed audibly, rather forgetting the presence of the other in the room, until he spoke again.

"Indeed. It _has_ been well received, has it not? Surprisingly, perhaps, as with it you raise some very interesting issues, some very sensitive topics that those perhaps less educated, less sophisticated than ourselves might consider to be improper. I greatly enjoyed speculating about your innuendos and the amusing disparity you set up with Don Juan."

"Disparity?" _Amusing?_ Erik was already slightly confused. There was much to which he must respond and he had not stayed up all the night writing notes as Sigmund had. Indeed, he hadn't even thought about _Don Juan Triumphant_ since opening night. It left him at a distinct disadvantage if this were to turn into a contest of wills.

Sigmund was smiling at him. "Recall that we were given very little information regarding Don Juan as you portray him. Therefore, we entered the theatre expecting the charismatic womanizer of Molina and Moliere and instead—"

"He's hideous," Erik completed the thought for him. "Indeed, that was rather the point." Surely the man had already made the connection. Here he sat in a mask. If the man possessed even average intelligence he'd have made the connection already between a hideous character and a masked composer.

"Hideous, perhaps. But that isn't what struck me. I don't believe Don Juan was ever described as having been attractive; he was a trickster of sorts who masqueraded as a woman's lover in order to seduce her. But the thought of a Don Juan who did not possess a nose struck me immediately as an incongruity. His name as become synonymous with sexuality and yet you present us with a man entirely incapable—"

"Incapable?" Well, yes, for the simple reason that every woman alive hated and feared him.

"Well, the lack of a nose is somewhat suggestive, Erik."

With his face carefully masked Erik knew that it was not readily obvious that he himself also lacked a nose, but as soon as the issue was raised his heart began to beat more forcefully against the wall of his chest and he felt a distasteful heat come to his bony cheeks.

"I rather wondered at the disparity. A Don Juan figure without a nose. Surely you understand the implication; it cannot be mere coincidence. And then, during act iii he acquires a more normal appearance and with it, of course, the ability to seduce so many women."

But what has a nose to do with it, Erik wanted to insist. "As reluctant as I am to disappoint you, I must admit that it _is_ a mere coincidence, actually." But he shivered as he said it. Was it indeed? He could sit here and pretend he didn't fathom the implication when he had, in fact, made to Christine several inappropriate references to Raoul de Chagny's nose while he was in the torture chamber. "You'll tell me later what his nose looks like," he'd said, among other things. And poor sweet Christine, she had been too innocent to take it for anything more than a literal comparison between the man inside the torture chamber and the poor noseless creature who stood beside her.

"Truly? A coincidence?" Sigmund Freud was not a believer in coincidence. Repressed subconscious thoughts, perhaps, but not coincidence. "Some people have speculated that you were making a suggestion about other parts of his body. Indeed, there are many cultures of the world which hold such beliefs."

Naturally the conversation would degrade to this, Erik thought, reflecting on the hours he'd spent pouring over the man's writing, and he unnecessarily revealed far more than he intended when he responded, "I can say definitively than any correlations many cultures may make are simply incorrect."

By the tone of Erik's voice the idea disturbed him somewhat, so Sigmund chuckled, made a joke of it, suggested, "Perhaps the inverse is true."

Erik allowed himself a brief sarcastic smile. "I haven't the basis for comparison," he said dryly. "As regards Don Juan's comeliness or lack thereof, I would say it has little to do with any one feature. The point I was making was that women prefer beauty, even when it is shallow and ill-gotten."

Sigmund welcomed the change of topic as it, too, addressed something about which he was curious. "That's something else I wished to ask you about. There is the customary 'deal with the Devil' taking place here, though from the remainder of the work, it doesn't seem you were deliberately conveying a religious message. Were you suggesting that basic human desire is evil?

Well, wasn't it? He had desired Christine and look what it had driven him to do! He he desired Elizabeth, and the result of that would perhaps be something small and helpless that rather looked a lot like himself. His stomach turned as the thought occurred to him. But he had remained silent far too long in response to a statement that was clearly intended to be a question. "Isn't it?" he said quietly.

They were both silent a long time. "Well, I was asking your opinion," the doctor admitted at last. "I don't believe one could say definitively that something is or is not evil. Evil is a construct of society. It isn't something one can scientifically prove."

"Then you do not believe a person can be evil?"

"A person might act on certain impulses. His society might judge him based on their social constructs. But I am more concerned with how a person judges himself."

Erik was intrigued. "Explain."

Conversation with Sigmund was rather simple, Erik found. He was so filled with ideas that a mere word or two from Erik was enough to keep things moving forward and sounding like a conversation. "It is like your Don Juan in the fourth act, perhaps," he was saying now. "There is a dichotomy there, is there not? There is what Don Juan is driven to do, and there is what he quite obviously believes about right and wrong, if you believe his guilt is genuine."

"Oh, it is," Erik supplied.

"_That_ is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I was impressed with your focus on the two disparate facets of Don Juan's personality. You've set up quite a conflict here with the struggle between good and evil but also with the struggle between acting on impulses, giving in to every base human drives or denying one's self. I've been thinking about this for quite some time. It is something I see quite often in patients."

Erik cringed. If he was exhibiting traits of this man's patients, there was likely little hope for him. He felt suddenly sick.

"What I have been working on, though, is what mediates between the two," he continued while Erik fought his nausea. "There is, you see, the part of the self that is all desires: food, drink, warmth, comfort, _sex._"

Oh yes. Erik knew _that_ part well enough. That was the part he had staved off for years, had _denied_ for years, until now, perhaps due to age or weakness or simple temptation, he could scarcely deny it longer. It was not only sex, he reflected, remembering being driven above by hunger, the desperate craving for water within the torture chamber, the way he gave himself over to being cared for by Elizabeth before he even knew her. Oh yes. He was weak!

"There is also the part that is influenced by all the rules and laws and social mores of our countries, our cultures, or societies, yes?"

Erik nodded again. It made sense, certainly. Right and wrong, good and evil, light and dark. He _knew_ the difference. Even Nadir could see that he knew the difference. It was why he didn't turn him over to be put to death all those years earlier. It was why he pursued him, reminding him of his promise: no more murders. _How do I know what is right?_ he'd asked Nadir. Nadir didn't provide the answer. Instead he simply pointed out, _If you did not know, we would not be having this conversation_. Yes, he was fairly certain he did know what was right. He had managed to _do_ right in the past, sometimes for months at a time. Why was it that it was never permanent?

"Naturally, as you so aptly demonstrated, these two do not always agree. So, what happens when the two do not agree?"

Erik set his face as stone beneath the mask remembering blood from a self-inflicted head wound trickling into beautiful golden hair. He would never reveal _that_. "One must try to desire that which is right," he said at last.

"That quite an interesting thought."

"Do you mean to suggest it is unusual?"

"Society's moral laws are frequently naturally in conflict with our basic desires."

There was another long quiet moment. It was such a simple statement, but Erik mulled it over for a great length of time. "Our?" he asked at last. "You mean to suggest that everyone desires things of which society does not approve?"

"Of course. And when that happens..."

He continued speaking, but Erik was momentarily lost in his own thoughts. It was not only he himself, then, who was so entirely at odds with what was good and right and proper? _Everyone's_ desires were at odds with society? But was it not everyone who made up society? Why would people so readily speak of rigid moral laws with which they did not agree? And even as he wondered it, the reason was suddenly apparent: each of them thought that he or she was the only one with such desires. Each of them was deliberately hiding that which was real and true beneath... Well, beneath a metaphorical mask of sorts. They were all as conflicted as he was, perhaps! It meant that he was like them. It meant that those drives did not make him a monster as he had previously always thought; they made him _human_. Maybe there was the chance he had been all along.

"...perhaps that is why the majority of my patients are female, I suppose. They have far fewer outlets for such frustration. We men can, I daresay, get away with quite a bit more than the ladies."

"I apologize. Could you repeat that?"

The other laughed. "All of it? Verbatim? Probably not, actually. I was merely saying that it seems to me that these two parts of the self are constantly at war with one another."

"Yes."

"It is not a comfortable situation to have two parts of one's self at war with one another, is it?"

"No," Erik said tentatively.

"So there must be a way to mediate between the two. How does one differentiate? How does one decide how to act when one is so desperately pulled in two distinct and opposite directions?"

Erik shook his head helplessly. What _was_ one to do? "One yields to what is right," he said at last. _Go and marry the boy... I know you love him... don't cry anymore._ It was simple, was it not? One had only to deny oneself what one most desired. _There is what I want,_ he could hear himself telling Elizabeth one afternoon as he pointed at the scorpion not so long ago, _and then there is what is right._ He had failed for certain _that_ time.

When Erik failed to answer Sigmund answered his own question for in his mind he was actively working through his theories of the night before and whether Erik chose to respond or not became irrelevant as the ideas flowed rapidly.

"Your self mediates between the two. If one simply yielded to the pleasure principle at all times, one would be selfish, greedy and completely unable to care for another in any fashion. But the opposite extreme is also dangerous. It results in constant feelings of guilt and leads to self-loathing. In order to be healthy, one must balance the two warring factions, make compromises that address the competing demands of both sides. One must learn to balance the two; not to do so results in an unbalanced mind and that—"

"—is dangerous," Erik supplied. He wasn't asking a question.

"_Potentially_. Over time or in extreme cases it might lead to neuroses, psychoses, hysteria..."

"Irrevocable damage," murmured Erik.

"Irrevocable? No, certainly not. I treat it all the time. Why, in my practice I've worked with several individuals, women mostly, but it happens in men as well, who have suffered—"

Now Erik was paying rapt attention. "What is it you do with them? How does one treat such a thing?"

"Analysis, typically. It involves talking, predominantly about the past—"

"And this _helps_?" Erik was suddenly skeptical again, his tone was sarcastic.

"Indeed."

"Talking?" Sigmund nodded back at him enthusiastically. Erik glanced up and about. There was not a clock in this room, but he had surely been here a long time. "He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man through the slits in the mask. "We have been talking quite a long time now," he said carefully "and I believe I can say quite certainly that I do not feel any different than when we began." Of course it wasn't true. That one mere sentence filled him with relief and anxiety at the same time. The idea that his desires were just like everyone else's flooded him with relief but at the same time anxiety coursed through him—anxiety that perhaps the this man was wrong, perhaps he misunderstood, perhaps this wasn't happening at all. All the same, the relief was greater than the anxiety, and though he wouldn't admit it, he wanted to discuss the topic further.

Freud was silent a long moment. Then he said softly and very carefully "Of course, Erik. But this has been a mere conversation. It is hardly the same thing as analysis."

Erik eyes narrowed further still and his mind turned over and over. The other said not a word, for he could feel the atmosphere of the room change dramatically as Erik considered his words, weighed the possibilities and internally argued with himself whether there was any value in considering such a course of action.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** So... speculations? Shall Erik subject himself to analysis? Hypnosis? Friendship with dear ol' Sigmund Freud? And yes, I admit that Erik is far too civil and far too compliant here... but you had an inkling he'd changed a bit when he got rid of the coffin, no? Or when he decided to go looking for the doctor himself? Or even before that when he had Nadir, Anton and Christine come for a visit? I believe our dear Erik is making progress at last. (Which, sadly, means we are VERY close to the end of this particular story. :sigh: Yes, I know I've been saying that for some time... but we are much closer now than we were then.)


	129. Chapter 129: Acquiescence

**Author's Note:** I am ambivalent about this chapter. Parts of it I really like and parts of it I am not too certain about. Even so, I offer it to you, mainly because to keep it from you would keep the story from progressing. There will be another one ready as soon as possible.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. Sometimes, I fear it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure.

**EXTRA! EXTRA!** Guess what? At long last, our dear friend Silver Diva who has been reading and commenting all along the way (you might recall that chapter 71 was dedicated to her because she likes characters who think) has decided to post her Phantom of the Opera fic here on FFN. YAY!! I just wanted to officially recognize her and suggest that if you're enjoying this (I hope you are... if you're not but you've read all the way to chapter 129 anyway, I don't understand you a bit, though I'm grateful for you nonetheless) I think you'll like her piece as well. It's not at all similar, and yet you'll find common threads and common themes. If you read the prologue and wonder "What gives? Where's Erik? What has this got to do with Phantom of the Opera?" hang in there. It's FAR more fun that way.

**Apology and Agonizing:** I am sorry to post so late in the day today. It is already 6 p.m. and I'm just now posting. The reason it is so late is I was at a writers conference this weekend and it was utterly exhausting making me too tired to write or post when I got home. I learned a lot, which is always a good thing, but I am also devastated by some of what I learned. Of course, the bad news is also the good news in this case. Apparently, the "average" book needs to be between 80,000 words and 100,000 words. That's bad because this is already three books but has only one plot... but it's also good because this has taken only seven months which means that I can write the correct number of words in two months which leaves me a lot of time to revise, revise, revise. Of course, I'll have to be very careful that I know where the story is ending up before I begin. Otherwise, I end with what we have here—not a novel, but a soap opera. Even so, I've already noticed much I could cut if publication became an issue. Still, it's hard to get my mind around the concept that books are not as long as I thought they were. I didn't believe them at first, but I did some research today. They were telling the truth.

* * *

"How do you determine whether analysis will work?"

"I have never known it not to work where the ailment was a problem of the mind," Sigmund began. Of course, how we proceed depends on the nature of the problem. If, for example there is a physical ailment—"

Erik laughed aloud but apologized an instant later without explaining. Indeed, he had a physical ailment, but there was no chance that it was going to abate with talking or trances. That would make this man's work the magic of fairy tales: _And after a number of hours of analysis, the hideous death's head was no longer and in its place was a handsome face that any woman would have loved and any man would have envied._ He was laughing again, the back of his fist covering his mouth though the mask already did so. It _was_ an amusing thought, he reflected, then wondered if perhaps his finding something so serious amusing was a sign of still more madness. The laughter faded abruptly. "Excuse me. I apologize."

"One needs to determine first whether there is a physical cause for a physical ailment. If there is not, however—"

"Like Anna O," Erik supplied, and the other looked mildly surprised that he had read the case.

"Precisely."

Erik's head was lowered and he looked through the tops of his eyes like a bull about to charge. "Suppose a person were uncomfortable talking."

"We would work on that first, until he _were_ comfortable. It would quite difficult to help a person who didn't trust me enough to speak with me."

"Perhaps trusting you is not the issue. Perhaps a person simply made a decision to never speak of certain things."

Freud stroked his beard. "I would express concern that a person who had made that decision might be repressing dangerous emotions."

_Dangerous._ Did this man consider him dangerous? _But I am more concerned with how a person judges himself._ Did he consider himself dangerous? Well? Did he? Perhaps not nearly as much so as he had previously. Perhaps only in brief moments. Yes, were those moments not the reason he had allowed himself to be persuaded into this meeting? How had the discussion of _Don Juan Triumphant_ become such a distraction that he had forgotten _that_?

"Have you ever encountered someone who was unable to remember specific moments in time. Someone who perhaps found himself in a location but could not remember how he had gotten there?"

_Does it happen often_, Sigmund wanted to ask. There was no longer a secret whom they were talking about, but both men circled the topic carefully, warily watching one another for a reaction that showed he'd gone too far, said too much.

"Certainly. And such memories are nearly always able to be retrieved."

Erik drew in a sharp breath. Making it _stop_ was a priority. But did he _want to know_? Once he knew, there would likely be no forgetting it again, especially if it was particularly terrible. His eyes flicked to the door and back. Elizabeth was not far away. She said she would be reading a book in a nearby room. If he knew her at all, she was merely _holding _the book and staring intently at the door, wondering what was happening in _this_ room. _She_ knew what happened at least one of those times. _You said some things that sounded terrible. You didn't hurt anyone,_ she'd said. But what about the other times? There was a dead body that still needed to be spoken for.

"About what would one speak if one did not remember the matter in question?"

"Typically we start with the distant past, childhood, familial relationships..." Sigmund trailed off as he sensed the increase in tension as Erik considered his words.

"That is not an option," was Erik's answer.

A heavy sigh. That meant no, Erik concluded easily. "It would make analysis very difficult."

Erik shrugged. "It is no matter. It was not of extreme importance in any regard."

It wasn't true. One didn't have to be able to see a man's face to know he was lying. One didn't even need to see his eyes. Tone of voice conveyed it all, if only one knew for what to listen. In this case, one didn't even need to listen carefully.

"You simply do not trust me."

"Do not take it personally."

"I don't. I merely wondered if that could change."

Erik sat back and folded his arms. This was new, indeed. A few had earned his trust perhaps, though if he ever admitted it, it was only grudgingly and rarely aloud. He wasn't certain he could remember anyone stating such a goal aloud. It made him suspicious of the man's intentions. Why would anyone wish to earn his trust? What was in it for him?

"How would that occur?"

Sigmund took a long moment to consider before he spoke again. At last he heaved a heavy sigh and began. "The day I met your wife the two of you had become separated in the street."

This disturbed Erik mildly. Why did this man know that Elizabeth was his wife? Had it had been repeated to his colleagues? Had word gotten to Wilhelm, who would not doubt wish to do something about it? But more important than that was the fact that Elizabeth had told him they had become separated in the street.

At last Erik said, "She told you why."

"She needed to tell someone something. I suppose she considered me the safest choice." He would have laughed a bit at the strangeness of their first meeting but instead watched keenly the change that came over the masked figure. He sat up straighter than ever and drew back slightly, his arms upon those of their chair as though about to rise.

"Then it was as I suspected?" Erik whispered in soft horror, for he had dared to believe, only a little but some nonetheless, that there was the slightest possible chance that no one had noticed anything or that no one had cared. "They would have... Then you..." Behind the mask his face contorted in confusion then suddenly the wrinkles disappeared, they eyes opened fully and the eyebrows shot up. "You somehow stopped them!" He was grateful, but it did not assuage his terror. "They would have come after me?"

"You believe they would have come after you?" This first was uttered leaning forward carefully trying to discern anything from the dark eyes behind the mask. Then he leaned back and considered carefully. "No one would have gone after you." He noticed Erik's hands had clenched into fists. "But you _believed_ they might come after you."

"Yes." Erik looked away.

They would not have? It wasn't so difficult to believe, was it really? Not here, not today, but at that moment in the street to flee seemed his only recourse. There was the disconnect, and perhaps there was the solution. He met the young doctor's eyes.

"Elizabeth holds you in the highest esteem," he said carefully. "She must have good reason. I have trusted her and not yet been disappointed." He sighed. "I might be willing..."

He said no more. There were questions that needed to be asked an answered but a man who declines to reveal his face cannot be expected to reveal his past, his feelings and his greatest fears, and so instead the doctor asked nothing as he reflected on what little he knew of the man from a brief conversation with him, two brief encounters with his wife, and one single opera. He smiled as the idea slowly came to him.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** As you may have gathered from "Apology and Agonizing" above, there is the potential for huge amounts of this story to be cut, including this entire paragraph. However, I also realize that when an author goes back to do cutting without finishing, sometimes an entire project gets abandoned and I promised I wouldn't do that to you, so I'm going to drag my way through this the way I had it originally planned for now. Any revising will happen WAY later, it at all. That having been said, I'd still love to hear your comments. AND a part of why this is so late is that the next part that comes behind it was already written and I was struggling with the bridge between the two. That means if you guys have the time to R&R this one, I'll put the next one up for you right away.


	130. Chapter 130: Self

**Author's Note:** Okay... In an unprecedented attack of "What I did this summer" I choose to post two days in a row, in spite of the fact that only 54 of you have managed to read what I posted yesterday.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

* * *

Erik wasn't certain whether to be relieved or horrified when Freud suggested hypnosis over analysis. This way he wouldn't have to say much, avoided having to make connections between specific thoughts, avoided answering questions. But this way he also relinquished more control, perhaps gave up the ability to consciously censor what he said aloud, certainly dropped his defenses making him far too vulnerable for comfort.

"I—" He stopped. He heard his own voice and instantly determined that the tremor made him sound completely ineloquent. The fact that he had no idea how to respond wouldn't improve that condition.

For a moment his heart had pounded wildly as he decided that yes, he would agree. He had to. His limbs suddenly went limp, yet he got clumsily to his feet regardless.

"I shall return in a moment," he managed as he edged toward the door. Out the door. It would be simple to vanish in an instant, leave the doctor to wonder what had become of the man who claimed to write operas and doubt the normalcy of his own human desires. Instinct drove him back underground where it was safe. There was comfort in the familiar stone walls. And yet... There was a conflict, yes, but the contrasting urge was not related to any moral issue but to yet another desire, a less instinctive one, perhaps, but a desire nonetheless. One last chance. A simple flat... a home like everyone else... He put his hands to his head. He had conflicts within his conflicts. The simple solution was to rush below, but in reality, it would solve nothing.

"I wish to have—" Oh, he might as well say it aloud then! "I wish to have _my wife_ present," he said at last and was surprised to find that the simply act of saying it aloud calmed him. "I shall return promptly," he finished and slipped out.

He found Elizabeth where she had promised to be in another not often used room. He found her exactly as he'd suspected he would: a book open upon her lap—randomly opened, he was certain, for it was opened to the exact middle—and her eyes upon the door as he opened it.

"I need your opinion," he said drawing her from the chair, letting the open but unread book fall from her lap to the floor.

"On what?" she asked allowing him to lead her from the room.

He paused in thought. "We should get Nadir to bring coffee," he told her suddenly. Poor Nadir! He was not a servant to run errands for him! He deserved more, as Erik had promised him on opening night. "He'll forgive it one last time," he moaned heading for Nadir's office.

"Erik! You called me out here... over coffee?"

He paused in confusion then placed both hands over his masked face. "No, no, no," he said. He hadn't forgotten it exactly; he simply did not want to think about that to which he had agreed. What he had requested, actually. "It just seemed that once I left the room perhaps I should offer him something upon returning do you think not? Never mind. It shall be done. Nadir then? Where is he?" They rushed down the corridor. "I needed your opinion..." His exuberance left him as suddenly as it had washed over him leaving trepidation in its wake. He stopped suddenly in the hall and stared down at her. "Suppose I allowed him to hypnotize me."

"Yes, suppose you did."

"Is it dangerous?"

She raised her eyebrows. He was serious? Oh, if only he'd known how close she had come to doing so already... "I can't imagine so."

"I would still be _myself_?"

Was the question a ruse? Did he _wish_ to be someone else? "It's science, Erik. Don't make it out to be sorcery." She turned him by the elbow and urged him along.

Trudging at her side he suggested, "What if it does not work?"

"It will work," she said.

"You're certain?"

"Reasonably so."

"If it does not?"

"Then you are no worse off than you were when we began."

It was at this point that they passed several members of cleaning staff who rather unsuccessfully pretended not to notice them. Fortunately for them, however, Erik did not notice _them_ and so he did not notice the manner in which they stared, nor did he hear them whisper behind their hands when they thought he was a sufficient distance away.

"It is unlikely that it will work," he said at last, more to console himself than to convince her. He'd found it easy to use his voice to persuade others over the years, but suspected such tricks would not work on a mind such as his own. He was far too intelligent, far too aware... "And you are correct. We shall simply be back where we began." With one exception, perhaps. This was one more person who did not instantly hate him. Ah, two exceptions, then. There was also the fact that all those drives were perfectly normal. "Things will be just fine," he told her, though it was for his own benefit that he said the words aloud. "Just as they would have been anyway." He would return immediately to the organ and the awkward arrangement of the Louis Philippe room, which had never been intended to hold even one occupant, let alone two.

"I don't have any doubt it will work, Erik," she said, trying to keep her voice toneless.

"You do not think there is the chance that—" he paused. "Are there not people for whom—" He noticed the expression on her face. "I am not one of them, then."

"You are not."

"And _you_ know it for _certain_!" he hissed. When she rolled her eyes and looked away he let out an indignant cry. "How could you?"

"It was only a mild suggestion, Erik," she said softly, "and it seemed necessary at the time."

He should be angry; he knew that. Anger was the most logical, most appropriate, certainly the easiest response and yet instead he was merely baffled. Walking slowly down the hall he sought to grasp the concept that he had not even noticed, had somehow... "Surely there... there is some... ethical concern?" he began.

She quickened her pace. "I'm not a doctor. You weren't a patient."

"Shouldn't that make it still more serious?"

She shrugged. "You're my husband."

He was incredulous. "I wasn't _then._"

"No. Then you were just the masked fellow who turned up in my hotel room without being invited and without a key and announced his presence by stepping out of the shadows and putting a hand over my mouth. I suppose ethics would have mandated that I notify the authorities as to your whereabouts—"

"Enough. I understand. You'll... stay, of course?"

She was taken aback. "Why wouldn't I?"

"In the room," he clarified. "If I allow it at all. I rather fear I shall change my mind before we get back there."

"You won't," she said squeezing his shoulder.

"None of your tricks, now," he responded playfully. He glanced around furtively then pulled her into a little known nook, lifted his mask, kissed her passionately, then proceeded down the hall as though nothing at all had happened. She followed him, beaming. Considering the sudden change in his demeanor she dared to wonder what Freud had already done to him.

* * *

It was not long later that Erik found himself once again seated in the little room. In addition to three chairs and a fainting couch it now contained Elizabeth and a tray laid out for coffee. A moment earlier it had contained Nadir who had, Erik noted, kept his eyes downcast and his curiosity off his face. He had hidden it well; there was no chance at all that he was not curious as to what was happening. Elizabeth passed the coffee mugs and naturally Erik declined to partake. It would make a mess of the silk, he decided, entirely ignoring Elizabeth's comment as she offered him a mug that, "It is only the three of us, Erik."

"No," he told her, and his voice was sharp. He scarcely noticed it as his pulse beat in his ears. His twined his fingers together to keep his hands from shaking. He wasn't certain whether it was what she had just asked him to do or what he was about to subject himself to that had him so shaken, but he was nevertheless, a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Erik," her voice was scarcely a murmur. He leaned toward her almost imperceptibly. She put a hand on his shoulder. "It still works," she whispered as his hands managed to stop shaking and the rushing in his ears abated some. He smiled at her. She knew it, even though she could not see it.

He sighed deeply. "I apologize for my sudden departure," he managed to the young man at last.

Only moments later Erik found himself somehow persuaded to move from the security of his chair to the couch. Something in the back of his mind resisted and yet he complied anyway as easily as he relaxed when Elizabeth touched his shoulder. This was all it would be then? Mere suggestions that it found it rather pointless to resist? It seemed far too simple. It was something he himself could surely master with only a little practice, he was certain of it, he considered as he listened to the drone of the doctor's voice. It was not altogether unlike singing for there was a rhythm to the words, a soft calming cadence, a rising and falling of the pitch of the voice. It was a soothing music, and it occurred to him to be concerned that he might simply drift to sleep and miss the entire treatment. A moment later, however, the Voice was calmly pointing out that if this happened it was no cause for concern. Erik let his eyes drift close against the protestations of something in his mind that reminded him to be ever vigilant. He drew and exhaled a deep breath and the objecting voice was silent. That was a trick he would have to remember.

Elizabeth watched in fascination as her Erik seemed to sink into the couch. She could tell his jaw was slack beneath the mask. His hands lay limply at his eyes, his eyelids ceased to twitch. He was entirely calm, but _she_ was not. She twisted her hands in her lap and wished someone would hypnotize _her_.

She listened as the man she admired invited the man she loved to travel with him down a long corridor. Erik responded in a voice that was soft with wonder that yes, he would.

It was a long, dim corridor, rather like those beneath the opera. The walls were of gray stone and the floor beneath solid, not rough and irregular but smooth and reassuring. It was dim, yes, but there was light enough to see the way. Erik followed the Voice of the man, though he could not see the man who led the way. It was a very long corridor and he was curious about what was at the end of it, so he quickened his pace, but the other indicated there was no need to hurry, it was not so very far and they had much to discuss along the way.

At the end of the corridor there would be a small room, but it was quite a distance. When they got there, Erik would enter the room; the Voice would accompany him. Within this room Erik would find something quiet special. At first he might not recognize it, for in preparation for his arrival, it had been covered with a large white sheet. Otherwise, the room was empty and contained no windows.

The Voice that led him down the hallway wished to tell him what lay beneath the sheet so that it would not surprise him. There were to be no unpleasant surprises here, the Voice told him. Strangely, he'd been certain of that before it was spoken aloud.

His muscles seemed to melt until he could not feel his progress down the corridor, only see it. He seemed to float along the passageway like winged Mercury skimming over the earth. Perhaps this is what death was like. Perhaps he didn't have a body at all, but it didn't seem to matter. He glided further down the passageway feeling far more relaxed than he could possibly have imagined. It was a feeling he was certain he had never experienced before.

Beneath the sheet was a mirror. Erik nodded in acceptance of this fact. He hadn't quite foreseen it, but it was not a surprise. It didn't bother him, really. He had just been considering getting another of those anyway. It was peculiar it should come up here. The mirror beneath the sheet was large with an ornate gold frame. The frame was not so very unusual, however. It was the mirror—the glass of the mirror—that was unusual, the Voice told him. In an ordinary mirror when one looks, one sees one's own body, one's own face, but nothing more. _This_ mirror would show far more.

It occurred to Erik that the thought of seeing _beyond_ the body should terrify him for his heart and soul were surely black, but as quickly as the thought occurred to him it floated away. It was impossible to work one's self into a panic here in this lovely corridor when the gentle curve of the walls was so comforting, the solidarity of the floor so reassuring...

Erik was sinking once again without leaving the corridor, his muscles feeling as though they were melting into some soft surface even as he entertained the illusion that he stood upright and moved forward. It was hard to imagine that somewhere in Paris there was an opera house and in that opera house a room with a little couch, and upon that couch, a body that looked just like his. Perhaps the Opera had been one long hallucination. It seemed so distant now.

He neared the end of the corridor and counted the steps to the room, though he could not conceive of why it occurred to him to do so. He opened the door, stepped inside and heard the door swing shut behind him assuring him the utmost in privacy. He was alone in the room, but he could still here the Voice ever with him. He approached the massive draped object and looked up at in momentarily in awe, dwarfed by its magnitude. It _towered_ over him.

This room was within his mind and it would always, _always_ be here. He could return any time he liked. He was rather certain he would return often, for the high ceilings produced reverberating echoes that were strangely comforting. The room was cool and still and quiet.

Erik's hands deftly untied the mask as they had done so many times in the house on the edge of the city. In an instant, the mask was in his pocket and his hands reached forward for the shimmering white mass before him.

The line between body and mind is a thin one and blurry; it did not occur to Erik's mind to wonder whether his body had removed its mask as well, so he had no idea that somewhere in Paris there was an opera house and somewhere in that opera house there was a room in which two people sat staring at his body as his hands untied a mask and removed it from his face. His eyes were so trained upon the sheet, his mind so intent on what lay beneath it that he was not aware that a man who had not seen him before turned and offered a sympathetic expression to a woman who watched with her hand pressed over her mouth.

Beneath the sheet lay the mirror. Erik hesitated. His fingers twitched. He frowned. Then he was sinking once again, the soft folds of the sheet clutched in his hands. This time, he was not afraid. This time, there was no shame. He did not close his eyes. This time, he did not need to brace himself for what he would see. He pulled the sheet effortlessly away and let it fall the floor.

There was no hatred at all, nor was there any anger. He stared into the silvery depths of the mirror, and he saw himself. He was not so terrible at all.

Somewhere in an opera house in France, a somewhat self satisfied young doctor turned to an admiring dark haired lady to ensure that she was still watching. On a makeshift analyst's couch a tall, thin, peculiar-looking man lay, a smile stretched across such lips as he had, his now open eyes wide and fixed upon the ceiling, pouring tears down his temples, into his ears.

Erik stayed a long time in the high-ceilinged room with the ornate mirror. Who could blame him, really? It was the first time he had ever truly seen himself.

When at last it was time to go he left the sheet lying on the floor. There was no need to cover a mirror such as this one. He glanced longingly over his shoulder. He would return here later. And often. He could return as often as he liked. The Voice said so.

Erik slowly retraced his steps down the corridor. His eyes were trained a few steps ahead of him while his mind traveled to distant places in which he could move about in the streets with his face uncovered. People might still talk, yes. There would always be people like that. Nothing came of it, really, though. Nothing had come of it in years. What were words but thoughts spoken aloud, and thoughts should not condemn a man to live in secret. There were some who were not afraid. Perhaps there might be more. Even so, if the vast majority were unkind, he had already tried living far from the eyes of men and it had not brought him peace. Perhaps he would try living among them once more. Someone might speak unkind words. He might return a smile and polite word or two. It was something he hadn't tried before. He smiled now, thinking of it.

It had taken an eternity to get to the chamber with the mirror inside, but to return took merely an instant. The Voice was counting backward as Erik reached the end of the corridor. He paused and looked upward as the Voice reached one. There was a sound like a snap and the room materialized before his eyes.

Sigmund Freud sat before him with one ankle upon the opposite knee smoking a cigar—smoking it rather arrogantly in Erik's opinion, actually, but then perhaps the man had the right to be arrogant after all. Erik smiled at him and contemplated what to say. In the end he said nothing, for when Freud smiled back it occurred to Erik to wonder.... His hand traveled slowly upward to his face then downward to his pocket. When had _that_ happened?

But he had not a moment to consider it for his eyes were drawn to a flutter on the other side of the room as Elizabeth got to her feet looking as though she were about to burst with emotion. Erik sat forward and looked at her. She put her hand to her mouth and he motioned her towards him. She stood and moved a few steps closer as though in a trance. He rushed to her and embraced her, one arm tight about her waist the other hand on the back of her head and his face in her hair. "I wish," he told her "that you could have seen it."

She ran her hands over his back, gripped his shoulders, held him tightly. "Erik, I've seen it all along," she responded and he held her more tightly still.

Freud sat in his chair, smiled, and puffed his cigar.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Would really love to hear your thoughts on this one......


	131. Chapter 131: Childhood

**Author's Note:** Okay... Since last night when I went bonkers and posted two days in a row like I used to, 61 people have read and 8 have reviewed. (Clearly this one was more important to you guys, and I totally understand why. Sorry for the intervening chapters that were a bit ho-hum.) When yesterday I stated that only 54 people had read the chapter before it, MadLizzy blinked at me rather incredulously. Taking a hint from that, I have decided that 61 and 8 is a fine place at which to post again. I hope the next one is as well received and doesn't like, cause riots or anything. Anyway, as I have gotten a bit ahead (and yelp! If we continue at this pace we may finish the entire piece in a week!) I'm going to post AGAIN without waiting a day in between. Hope this suits everyone's fancy. It's a little short, but the next one more than makes up for it, I believe.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

* * *

It was only a moment before Erik and Elizabeth became aware again of the additional presence in the room with them. They separated quickly, she smoothing the folds of her dress hastily and he clearing his throat. Presently, they were seated in chairs once again.

"Fascinating," Erik admitted at last. "Perhaps I underestimated you. How could I do anything but, though, from the way you portray yourself and every patient in that book?" he said.

Elizabeth shot him a silencing look, but he was far past feeling self-conscious about anything at all. She sighed and wondered how long that would last before he might even out to something like normal.

"You didn't like the book?" Freud looked oddly unoffended but _curious_. When Erik's answer was obvious from his rather defiant nod, he continued "What disturbed you most about it?"

Erik glanced at Elizabeth and tried to remember. What exactly had upset him so much about the man's writing? The long convoluted sentences that seemed born of pure arrogance or the fact that the man dared to claim to understand the mind of another?

The phrase "anxiety neurosis arises from accumulation of physical tension, which is itself once more of sexual origin, manifesting itself in phobias, anxious expectations and hyperaesthesia" came to mind immediately but Erik discarded it as promptly. He didn't disagree with that particular statement at all, actually. He hadn't realized it had lodged itself so permanently in his memory, but now that he realized it was there he took a moment to consider that perhaps it explained quite a bit. Good to have gotten past that bit anyway.

"I think perhaps I was not comfortable with your views on how sons view their mothers," he said at last. It was a mistake, surely, to bring it up, for he would respond and then it would be a conversation. He would respond by asking or commenting about—

"You are not the first to make that complaint. No doubt as an adult you have trouble considering that you ever could have had such feelings for her. Men revere their mothers, honor them, love them, yes, but to consider—"

Erik's bitter laugh was back, Elizabeth noticed. Was his experience of beauty to be so short-lived? She dared to glance at him and the pain was plain on his face. It was wonderful to see him simply sitting in that chair, though, unmasked as he was, bitter look or no.

"It was the little boy," Erik interrupted. "It was the case with the little boy that I found absolutely revolting. You automatically assumed that the child was bonded to his mother without any regard for the fact that his mother regularly abandoned him. Or rather, with the thought in mind, you reached such a conclusion anyway.

"You recall I did point out that he was expressing anger. Perhaps the discarding of the toy was a way of saying I don't need you."

"Perhaps he truly hated her."

"Perhaps."

Erik frowned. This was not as he had intended. The other did not even argue with him! Why did he not defend his position? "You do not seem to think so," he said, attempting to elicit a response. "You were so certain that he could not possibly have felt his mother's departure as something agreeable. _Why not?_"

Even as Elizabeth shot Sigmund a warning look he uttered the words: "Would you?"

Erik's world ground to a halt as he pondered what to say. Simple solution: fly into an angry rage and distract thought from the obvious. Better solution: laugh good-naturedly and change the subject. Worthless solution: his past two thoughts. The only choice: take the chance. Compromise: test his footing first.

"You haven't years enough to analyze _that_."

The young man was nodding, seemingly compassionately. Was that possible? Could a simple nod convey compassion? Erik narrowed his eyes and carefully studied the other. _She hated me_, he opened his mouth to say. It came out backwards. "I hated her." Elizabeth looked at him, startled as if to say _That's not what you told me._ He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't be sure of anything at the moment. He couldn't be sure he'd actually opened his eyes when he thought he had. Maybe he was still in that peculiar trance. The only comfort was that he was still strangely calm.

"How far back can you remember, Erik?"

"As far as one needs to," he said easily. "Far enough to remember many terrible things."

"Might we explore them?"

Erik folded his arms and looked at the young man. His memories? Well, why bother? It would be nothing but pain. On the other hand, that is what he had thought about taking off the mask and taking a good look at himself, and that had been...unusual? He had not words to describe it. He couldn't help but be mildly curious what would happen if he allowed it and he was suddenly wildly—could it be?—_optimistic_ about the possibilities. Yes, he was impressed with the strange young man whose book he had derided. How could he _not _be? Yet he wouldn't reveal it entirely just yet. "Perhaps," he said at last, and guardedly.

As encouraging as the earlier experience had been, he was cautious about delving into all the most painful areas of his life. Why bother, when things had just suddenly gotten so good? And yet, had he not thought that before, and had the past soon after thundered back upon him with a wrath against which he was powerless?

"What exactly will happen?" he asked carefully.

"It's difficult to say. I don't know what memories are there."

"Then it is not the same as the mirror."

"It is somewhat the same as the mirror," he conceded.

"No," said Erik suddenly vehement. "You knew exactly what you would do with the mirror."

"I knew where we were going. I could only speculate what you would see."

"You told me what I would see."

"I told you only that you would see yourself. That was your view of yourself, not mine. I didn't describe what you saw in the glass."

As Erik stared, obviously dumbfounded, Elizabeth turned to him and touched his hand lightly. "Just like the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_," she said. "Beautiful.""

"No," said Erik in soft wonder. "Not beautiful. Just..." he looked around as though he might find the words on the ceiling. Plain. Ordinary. Not exactly. "Like anyone else," he murmured.

Elizabeth clucked her tongue. He was so much more than that!

But Erik sat urgently forward. "And if I had seen something terrible? Something fearsome beyond words, how would you have handled that?"

The young doctor shrugged. "I speculated that you would not based on what I knew of you."

What could he possibly know in less than a day, Erik wondered? And yet, he had been right. Curiosity took control of his mind and leaned back in the chair. What had he to lose, after all? He already knew the past was terrible. He certainly hadn't forgotten that. "And retrieving those others memories," he said.

"If you wish it."

Erik found it peculiar to settle down onto the couch without reluctance. Maybe the man had done something to his mind while he had been unable to pay closer attention. Still, he felt disinclined to complain for it was a sense of calm such as he had not experienced in years and the presence of others, perhaps ever.

A moment later he was listening to the rhythmic sound of the man's voice, noting how even without a variance in pitch the rhythm alone was rich and vibrant. A moment after that, he slipping down the narrow hallway again and through a different door.

Inside the room was a woman who looked exactly like his mother. That is how he thought it—someone who looks exactly like my mother. He had to perceive it this way for it could not actually _be_ her. Discounting the fact that she was long dead and this was all in his mind anyway, it still could not be her because when his curiosity overtook his apprehension and he approached her when he saw that in her arms she held a small bundle that was wrapped up in the fashion traditionally done with human children. He was the only child, and she had utterly detested him. Yet her she was he was rocking that little bundle and singing a strange melody that was both alike and different from the one that Elizabeth had hummed that evening he'd awakened on the floor after blacking out.

"Now you're creating false memories," he said crossly to the doctor he knew was there, though he could not see him from this view in this strange room within his memory.

"I wouldn't do such a thing, Erik," the doctor's voice came from somewhere in the far corner of the room where there was nothing. The louse, Erik thought angrily. He could tell a false memory when he saw it. There was no way that woman was his mother or else there was no way this had ever happened. He crept closer despite himself. False or not, if that child were he, that woman his mother, it was a fond memory. Even if it were false, he wanted to look carefully for a moment. The doctor might pay soundly later for lying to him, but in the meantime, he clearly had kind intentions. Erik took another step closer trying to see the face of the child without disturbing the woman. Then he realized that she could not see him, and he moved behind her to look over her shoulder. He glimpsed the child's face for but an instant and it was familiar even if small and young, but before he could dwell upon it, his perspective shifted and he was below, looking _up_.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be, for it was surely she, though her face was softer with fewer lines than he recalled. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that it was she. She smiled fondly at him and made some gentle noises. Likely she spoke words, but he was too young to understand. He reached up towards her face. She took his hand. Then her eyes were closed and her face was against his. They were rocking side to side and she was still whispering those mysterious words with the strange comforting tune.

That lying scoundrel! Erik clenched his fists and found himself speeding through time at such a pace that it gave him vertigo.

Oh, this was really too much! _That_ had surely never happened either, he thought, as they were sitting on the floor of a room littered with toys! Ha! Toys. And yet, they did look vaguely familiar. He _did_ remember these playthings now that he saw them again, though he remembered playing with them _alone_.

"I believe I understand what you are trying to do," he told the doctor, forcing himself to speak calmly, though inside he was anything but composed, "but I rather prefer we leave my memories in tact as they actually occurred."

The doctor's voice was still there in the corner. It replied that aloud that all he had suggested so far was that they visit different time periods. He hadn't yet suggested anything that Erik might see. "As matter of fact," he said pointedly, and Erik could imagine that he flicked his cigar as he said the words, "I don't even know what it is you see at present. It might," and here he clearly replaced the cigar in his mouth and spoke around it, "be helpful if you were to tell me."

Erik gritted his teeth and said nothing. Time moved forward yet again, yet this time, he felt prepared for it. He was rather mistaken however, for nothing could have prepared him fully for what he remembered next.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Sorry for this being a terrible place to leave off and make you wait. Of course, perhaps I can ease your mind with the thought that perhaps the next chapter will be available already by tomorrow. Please consider leaving your thoughts in a nice (or scathing bitterly complaining) review.


	132. Chapter 132: Assunder

**Author's Note:** Although not many have had the time to read and review, those who HAVE managed to have been so encouraging that I continue my pattern of posting daily since Sunday. What's today? Wednesday? Whoo-hoo! Day 4! Here is the next installment. I apologize for leaving you hanging like that last chapter, and... well... I guess I should apologize in advance for doing it again. But Erik's mind is a dark place with lots of twisting turning corridors, even as he slowly gets better and better. You can't expect everything all at once from such a complicated fellow. So enjoy. But as I said, I apologize. Anyway, I'm especially proud of this little chapter. And SUCH fun it was to write it, too.

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

* * *

This time he was lying in bed. He ached all over but the feeling was _very _familiar. "It hurts," he said aloud, without meaning to. Then he felt certain the doctor would ask him what—or why—and so he sat up to consider the situation. He rolled up a sleeve to find bruises on his arm, lifted his shirt and discovered his chest was similarly purpled. He gasped and noticed his face hurt as well. He glanced around the room. There was no mirror. Naturally. It figured. The one time he might wish for one, it wasn't there. He pushed at his cheekbones and brows to find they smarted terribly. With his tongue he determined that his lip was split. He lay still in horror. Had _she_ done _this_? He remembered her running away from him. He remembered her throwing the mask to him without looking at him. He remembered her in her room, far away. But he had not remembered _this _until now. He felt a tear slide down each side of his face. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked the doctor vacantly.

"Where is here? What is happening?"

Erik declined to respond. He was looking forward. He no longer needed to wait for the doctor's words. He moved forward on his own to see what happened next. It did not occur to him that time to move _back_ and see what had happened prior, to find out what had happened that put him in such a state, but he found out soon enough anyway, when it happened again for it had happened often.

He was in his own yard. He was harming no one. He was merely playing, exploring. He had, actually, been watching a rather large green grasshopper that was perched atop a fencepost. It waggled its antennae. It lifted one long bent hind leg and rubbed it against the other, then paused, quivering. It seemed to stare up at him with its large shiny black eyes. He reached a hand toward it. It hopped. Almost simultaneously his vision went white as something crashed over his head with a thunderous sound. He looked up and scrambled to his feet. It was a mob of children taller than he. Of course they were taller than he was. He was such a small child himself, scarcely tall enough to see the grasshopper on the fencepost if he stood on tiptoe! Before he had a moment to question or cry out, he was upon the ground again and feeling blows. A moment later it was finished, those who had done it gone, his face wet with both tears and blood, he knew, for when he wiped his tears away, his hands were stained red.

Without knowing why, he scrambled into the house and up a staircase. He bolted into the room that was his own. He made certain all the marks on his arms were covered; he couldn't be certain, though, about those on his face. Why was there not a mirror in here, the child in him wondered, while the adult inherently knew.

Still, the adult consciousness reasoned, these _could not_ be accurate memories. Surely he had not been so stupid to simply stand there like that, even at such a young age. Surely—but suddenly he remembered it _very_ clearly. He remembered telling no one, pretending it was not happening, day after day after day. He did not tell her, for he did not wish to upset her. Besides, how could he have explained it? He had no words for what they had done. He had few words at all in those days, actually. He spent his time looking at things, thinking about things, but he did not speak about them. How old _was_ he? At what age had he begun to speak? No, there had not been words to tell what was happening.

But suddenly he remembered their finding out. Yes. _Their,_ for there had been a father in those days too! He stared up at him in wonder. It had been so very long since he had seen him that he scarcely remembered his features. Naturally, he did not look like him, and yet, in a strange way, he did. Perhaps his own appearance resembled what his father looked like beneath the skin, for they had the same high cheekbones, the same strong jaw. But he had _her_ eyes.

Her eyes were filled with tears, and she was shaking. She was kneeling before him but she could do nothing more than sob. He stood over them and looked down in quiet concern. Then she had him in her arms but she was still shaking. Her hands rushed over him in an apparent attempt to ensure there were no serious injuries, but her hands felt frail and weak. He wrapped his arms around her, but it was like holding onto nothing. She shuddered and shook, and he instinctively sensed her despair and a wild fear surged through him. He broke into a childish wail—what more could be expected, for surely he was not yet even four years of age!—and once he began he could not stop. Before he knew it, he was ill and in bed. According to Father, Mother was ill as well. He cried and stayed where he was placed in the bed. His body hurt very badly, but his heart hurt worse. He had made Mother ill.

It hadn't been his fault. He'd have run inside and hidden away all the evidence if he could have, but they had tied him up that time. They had called him monster and demon, and they had carried him from the yard to a place that he realized now, looking back, they had prepared in advance. It was a twisted conglomeration of an exorcism, a mass, and a bit of witchcraft, all wrapped in the colorful elements of child's play making it far more sickening still. Was this the first time someone had called him a corpse? He wasn't certain. Something like living dead or walking dead, and one of the eldest of the boys surrounding him told him his mother had not wanted him—that his mother had tried to kill him before he was born, but that _he had only half died_.

The words hadn't made a bit of sense that day; they had been too advanced for his young mind. Today he was horrified, but also filled with disbelief. It didn't seem possible after the gentle way she'd handled him in the beginning. Could it be possible? Tears ran from his eyes as he considered it while the other boys bound him to a board and the eldest assured him that today they would finish the job, so he mustn't worry; it would please his mother and Oh! Look at the little corpse cry!

He was still crying when he heard her voice shriek his name—not the name he chose years later, but _his real name_. He choked on a sob once before he could manage to scream back. Then he wailed like the undead until she came into view. The boys around him dispersed in an instant and he was alone with his mother. He was tied upon the makeshift altar, candles and strange symbols surrounding him as she struggled with the ropes. At last she found a knife nearby—and he could tell by her expression she realized in an instant the use for which it had been intended—and cut his bonds, swept him into her arms and carried him home, staggering both with his weight and with grief.

Inside his mind, he closed his eyes and remained there a moment. It seemed useless to move forward once again, as things were clearly getting worse, not better, yet there was no sense in going back either, for those images felt foreign and inaccurate. He waited, attempting to collect his strength, and as he did so, time moved slowly forward.

Mother spends most of her time in her room. He is no longer allowed to go out. Father works more and more. He is rarely home. The house is lonely. Sometimes, when mother is not in one of her worst moods, he creeps to the piano where he sorrowfully plucks out the few chords he knows. The sound is pleasant, but it is not much fun trying to play with no one for an audience. He misses the grass, the trees, the sunshine. He remembers the grasshopper. He had intended to hold it in his hands. If they had not come, perhaps he could have touched it carefully with a fingertip.

Days blur together. Life is dull. Mother is mostly absent. She stays in bed. Sometimes he approaches her, but it makes her cry harder. He is afraid when she cries, and he cries as well. Father is not home often, but when he is he notices the pattern. He cautions her to be strong, hide her tears. Don't cry so much in front of the boy. You'll make him still more nervous than he is, more nervous than he needs to be. We'll move away from here. Things will be better. You'll see.

Mother is not so strong. She cannot look at him without falling to tears. He learns to stay away.

He does not go to her any longer. But today, she comes to him. She is crying. She is holding something made of soft cloth in her hand. She wraps it around his face, across his eyes. For a moment he cannot see and he swats her hand away. Then he hears her take a breath that sounds like a sob and stops. Mustn't make Mother cry. Oh, how he hates it when she cries!

Her hands make a few quick adjustments and he can see again. There are holes here for his eyes, and the bottom can be rolled up to eat. It must stay in place all other times. He may remove it at night, after he is in bed with the lights out. It must be put on first thing in the morning and it must not be taken off until bedtime. He wants to argue, but there are tears in her eyes. There are tears in his as well. He fights them as best he can. She is suddenly once again sobbing, and the sound of it is unbearable. His tears fall as well.

Tears between the fabric and his face feel strange, and he tears it off to wipe his eyes. She is cross, scolding, wagging her finger at him until he complies. He looks up at her through the eyeholes. She breaks into tears yet again and turns away. _This_ he remembers. This he has _always_ remembered. This has always been _his first memory_. He is almost four years old.

Shortly after that Father must have moved them to another house. This house was smaller and less comfortable, but there were fewer other houses around. They left quickly and he did not bring his playthings. Not to worry. Father is returning to town to continue to work. Father will bring them when he returns. But Father works so hard and comes so infrequently. He scarcely remembers seeing him after that.

Mother is unhappy most days. She cannot look at him but her eyes fill with tears. He tries to stay out of her way, but sometimes he is lonely. She pushes him away, tells him to be a big boy, to be strong. _She walks away._ Looking carefully now, years later, he noticed her far hand come up and pass across her eyes. Was she crying yet again? Kisses are out of the question for the mask must never come off.

But this time he catches words he had never before realized he'd heard: "_Later_, son," she whispers.

She was not lying either, for Erik rushed forward through his subconscious memories to night, crawling beneath the threadbare sheet with the mask still upon his face. Perhaps if he left it on this time, he could hear his childhood-self thinking, she would like him just a bit more. Perhaps if she liked him... He was drifting off to sleep. She glided in, silent as a ghost. In a single motion she removed the mask, bent to him and placed her lips upon his forehead. He felt her hot tears fall upon him as she drew away. Poor unhappy Mother, he thought. But beneath this rang another thought, equally poignant and far more important. Ah, she loved me all along!

He remembered the rest. He remembered his father's infrequent visits, his mother's growing distance, his own distancing himself from them, because he sensed, perhaps incorrectly, it was what they wanted. He remembered the day he at last decided it would be best for all involved if he simply left, and he remembered the night he ran away. That night it had seemed the best of decisions, while now he realized he must have caused at least as much grief and he relieved. He could imagine her looking for him, desperately shrieking his name, and he felt some guilt for that. Stronger still than the guilt, however, was the knowledge that she had loved him. _They had both loved him_. They had loved him enough to give up that lovely home, time with each other, their normal life. How he had craved their showing it through affection instead, but at least now he knew at last.

"It is enough," he said at last to the man he only now remembered was in the room. He knew all that happened after this and had no desire to live through it again. "Time to go."

"Isn't there anything else you'd like to see here?"

Erik paused. Why should he wish to see any more of this? This was terrible. These were perhaps the most painful memories of all, worse than the years in Persia, worse than the years at the Opera.

But slowly realization dawned: this was terrible. _Before this_ had been worth remembering. He hurried back to the beginning. In his mind, he turned toward the past again, rushing back to earlier memories—the ones in which they held him and sang to him, the ones in which Mother sat him upon her lap as she played the piano and let him strike the keys, the ones in which he was occasionally permitted to sleep between them in Mother's large bed. He drifted through memories of toys and caresses, soft words in gentle tones, smiling faces.... It was hard to believe he had been unable to remember this.

He stopped. There were those other things he did not remember. He must have said so aloud, for he heard the distant Voice telling him to go then to those times.

His consciousness materialized on the bank of what he had sarcastically referred to as Lake Avernus in conversations with Christine. The pain in his left shoulder defied description, was simply excruciating beyond words. He was holding a long reed in one hand and staring at a boat. It was his own boat—but it was not where he had left it. He was listening intently, for someone was here. Within, Christine was bound, her forehead bloodied from her violence against herself. Within, Erik now knew Raoul and Nadir waited quietly within the torture chamber, though as he stood by the lake he had not yet realized they were there. Without, Erik's mind carefully turned over, steadied itself, turned over again. Someone was here, and Christine had not yet made her choice!

**

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Shameless Begging****:** Okay guys... This is my best effort since _Don Juan Triumphant_. I'll be truly heartbroken if no one comments.


	133. Chapter 133: Remembrance

**Really long author's note about LAST chapter****:** To those who have expressed concern that I'm deviating from Leroux here, or that everything's somehow been invalidated or whatever, I should clarify.

There's evidence to suggest that unless a child bonds with someone early in life, preferably in the first four years of life, that child will be incapable of bonding throughout the rest of his or her life. In Erik's case, that would include being incapable of loving Christine at the end of Leroux's novel. Of course, one could make a case for that: he doesn't "love" her the way everyone else loves—her desires to possess her. It fits entirely with the way he behaves there at the end, surely. He might be purely a psychopathic killer. But as I have written a story in which my version of Erik _is_ able to bond, I have to set up the scenario where he had some figure that he bonded with. Yes, it could have been someone other than mother—a kind neighbor, relative, some friend of the parents, whatever. But Erik never said in Leroux that he hated his mother, either, only that _she_ was disgusted by _him_. The Persian says that Erik ran away from home when he was very young. (Gosh, how did he know? I guess maybe Erik told him.) But anyway, my own parents claim none of my memories are accurate. I think they are lying. I sure would love to know for certain.

There was a study not too long ago that showed that a significant percentage of memory was not accurate. Not just a matter of perspective, but _not accurate_. Things we remember might have _never _happened. I find it _very _hard to believe, but then, I go through life full of incredulity on a daily basis anyway. What I did last chapter is _one_ possibility. Maybe not entirely accurate, but a single possibility for which is enough evidence to say "Hey, it's possible..." and nothing more.

I don't know. Ultimately, it's for you to decide. Someone pointed out that they still don't have any sympathy for the absent father and the depressive mother. That's okay. I can't exonerate everyone without diverting further than I'm willing from what Leroux gave us. Mother still screwed Erik up royally. After all, Erik is far screwed up when we meet him. But I wanted to give you a possibility I hadn't seen done before. After all, isn't that rather the point of fanfiction anyway? To explore possibilities, examine characters, consider what might be, could be, would have been, if?

Anyway, a bit of backstory: the woman has probably had several miscarriages. Erik is the only live child and... well... I don't need to describe him to you. You've known him all along. Mother surely feels worthless or something close to it as a result. It's bad enough to have this "dead child" but she can't pretend anymore after she discovers the issue with the boys of the town, realizes that this child will never have a normal life, etc. Yes, she's hopelessly depressed, and depression wasn't understood in those days. Further, depression is one of those things that you're far more likely to have if you have a first degree relative who has it. Few of us would argue Erik doesn't show signs of depression later. Erik's father? Well, working. Trying to solve the problem with money. It explains Erik's hopeless hoarding of treasure later. Did Dad do the right thing? Who knows, but some folks I bounce ideas off wanted me to make him the typical absent father because Erik tells Christine "my own father never saw me!" I didn't want the typical absent father in my story. After all, it's quite "typical" and that's just not my style, right? Not only that, but I think that men in general and fathers in particular get a really bad rap in American media, and movies and such. I get awfully sick of hearing about how everyone hates his or her father, how father's are supposedly not as loving as mothers, how "kids should be with their mothers" and so forth. My personal little pet peeve, if you will. My father is wonderful. So is my husband. So you have this father: a man who tried to do the right thing and missed the mark by a longshot. Strange. All writing is autobiographical, I suppose. These could easily be my own parents: folks who did the absolute best they could and were absolutely certain they were doing the right thing and I somehow turned out all screwed up in spite of it, or perhaps even _because of it_. Ah, so there you have it. Far more than "reasonable" self-disclosure, you have more about me than you ever wanted to know. Poor unhappy Erik indeed. There is a reason why we all love this story. (Did I tell you the idea for this story started in a therapist's office? That Mother was the topic from day one? Obviously you've noticed the title. This was never meant to be shared, even...)

**The actual author's note**** (for the upcoming chapter):** Don't mind the bit about Erik's shoulder and left arm so much. This is what results when a person tries to work on a sequel, a prequel and a retelling she hopes will be an equal all at once. Things get muddled. The bit about the shoulder comes from the retelling, but I didn't realize when I started this one that it would become an issue, so it's not in there at the beginning. I'll go work it in later on, when we're done with this bit. Those who have a burning desire to know, feel free to PM me. I will tell you this much—ignore the fact that it's the left side. There is NO connection to the Kay-verse and Erik is _**not**_ having a heart attack. In fact, I guess I'll go ahead and tell you that the fact that the trouble is with his left arm has more to do with the fact that I suppose that Raoul is right-handed if that is any clue at all.

**Standard Disclaimer****: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

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_That boy!_ was his first thought as he looked upon the man who approached him in the darkness. That boy, come to rescue the girl! But it was not that boy. It was _certainly_ not that boy. This man was taller, broader, with a more mature face which Erik could easily discern in the darkness, though the man could probably not see Erik at all, for he was entirely in black. Even his face was once again covered by a black mask for after Christine's confessions to that boy on the rooftop—that he was terrible, that he filled her with horror—Erik could no longer bear allow her to see his face. He no longer truly believed in her feelings for him, no longer had confidence in her words. No, surely the man didn't see him at all. He walked toward him nonetheless in his journey along the place where the stone dropped off and met the edge of the lake. Erik waited and stared.

The man did not realize he was there until he was nearly upon him, and even then he probably never got a clear look at him. He startled at encountering another so close in this strange dark realm and stepped back nearly into the lake. Instinctively, he reached out, reached forward and caught hold of the only thing within reach—Erik.

Water closed over their heads in an instant, Erik found himself dragged downward suddenly. Any other time Erik would have reacted calmly, rationally, but this night was not like all other nights. The fierce pain that shot through the left side of his body nearly immobilized him and the chill of the water brought a shock to his system, while both his lungs and mind screamed for air. The reed was lost, forgotten, had slipped from his hand with the first impact.

Ordinarily such a situation would be no match for Erik, but something was very wrong. The other man gripped him about the shoulders, no longer flailing for life but fighting him, slow motion beneath the surface of the water. His left arm was near paralyzed; he could scarcely fight back. As he sank, he felt his will to live slipping away.

But suddenly he remembered Christine alone and bound in the Louis-Philippe room. He swiftly kicked free of the other and struggled to the surface his left arm tight across his chest, his right paddling furiously to make up for the disparity. He heard strong, even strokes behind him and suddenly the other was upon him, grabbing him from behind even as he swam and pushing him under once again. He might have been trying to drown him, though not necessarily. Erik couldn't tell and it didn't matter; he knew only that he had not invited him and yet here he was all the same on this night! This night, which was so important, the night in which he must convince Christine!

He will interfere. He will surely interfere. It was this thought which gave him the strength to finally wrest himself free. With a swift jab to the ribs, he ensured the other _could not_ interfere.

When at last he dragged himself to the edge of the lake, he was soaked through and his mask had floated away. What horror! He searched in vain, but it was lost. Christine was inside waiting for him and he was a wet, muddy mess with that deathly visage uncovered.

Leaning heavily against the wall he coughed and sputtered on the shore of the lake. He was exhausted, but there would be no rest this night, for he must convince Christine. He would be married first, and he could rest later. He was likely going to die anyway. Christine would not have to endure him very long; that was certain. His knees felt weak and he sunk to the ground to rest a moment. A thought at the back of my mind disturbed him. There was something important that he had not fully grasped. He focused instead on breathing. He coughed heavily and spat water. He nearly drowned, he realized.

Drowned. Yes. Suddenly he realized the rest—the other was drowned, perhaps. The other! The one who looked enough like the boy to be—yes! Ah, but it was! He had seen him before in the box at the Opera! The elder brother of the fiancé! The brother who does not approve! Surely this brother would simply forbid his young sibling to marry the girl, and the conflict would be solved at once! Unable to marry Raoul de Chagny, Christine would be devastated. She would cry, and it hurt him so terribly to see her cry, but he would endure it and find a way to comfort her. Music perhaps would help him in this. Eventually, she would entirely forget the boy. She would remember that once she trembled at the sound of Erik's music, Erik's voice. She would remember her pity for him and she would forget that she was afraid to look upon him. She would remember his kindness and entirely forget that tonight he was a monster who captured her and threatened her and bound her. Yes... she would forget. It was so simple. The brother... the solution!

Erik went back for the other but it was no use. He found the reed where he had dropped it and attempted its use, for he was now too exhausted for holding his breath. Sadly, as used as he was to darkness, he could not see clearly both underwater and in the dark at once. He surrendered. He could not find the brother. He returned to Christine unhappily dragging his feet across the floor. Perhaps the brother is dead. The brother should not have come here, Erik rationalized. Yes, Erik is nearly certain the other is dead. It is Erik's fault. Do I go about knocking on doors uninvited? Certainly not. He remembers with a shudder the times when he had. He had learned. It was not his fault if the other had not learned as well.

He did not tell Christine who the other was, but he sang his requiem. It was the least he could do. He was responsible. It was his lake, and it was he who delivered the blow to his ribs.

He was sick with guilt, but it was not murder exactly, perhaps. _It must be the same that night with the tapestries... my hands... my hands..._

And at once he recalled the destruction he had done in the house on the lake, and he remembered putting himself in the dungeon and continuing to rage. With nothing upon which displace his anger, he beat his hands against the walls. It accounted for the bruised and bloodied knuckles—and he had not yet encountered Nadir. Everything had become so grossly distorted, but now the pieces fit together. This is why Nadir remained alive—he had not laid his hands upon Nadir that night. There was only one moment left to visit, only one time more he was absolutely certain that he had lost a period of time.

He felt his eyes grow wide—though in reality they were still shut as he lay on the fainting couch—with horror as Anton slipped out the door and he wrapped his arms around Elizabeth roughly. He could feel now, even in his memory, how hard he was holding her. He was surely hurting her, yet her arms wrapped around him. She raised herself on her toes to kiss him. Something snapped inside him and he was certain it was a trick. It was like Christine. A single kiss and she would think she had done enough; she would think she had the right to go. He changed his grip upon her so he could hold both arms tightly in one long-fingered hand. He twined the fingers of his other in her hair roughly. She turned and somehow they lost their balance and toppled to the floor.

He continued to grapple with her. She mustn't leave. He would not let her leave. He pulled her towards the divan nearest the chains in the wall. He could bind her here. She could not leave if she were bound—and then the most terrible thought of all!—_if she were dead she would _never_ even try to leave me!_ The fact that he thought it at all was enough to disgust him and he turned away, releasing his hold on her for a moment.

She would run now. He had let her go and she would run. But there was no sound of footsteps and in curiosity he dared to throw a glance in her direction. She was still there! Surely she could see he was mad. He tore at his flesh to make sure no mask covered his madness. Mustn't she see what he had been about to do? Mustn't she know? Mustn't she fear him? She must hate him now. He put his hands over his face, wailed that she did not love him. Her arms were around him yet again. _I _do_ love you. I love you, Erik,_ she is saying over and over again, as though repetition might yield belief.

No. He drew himself from her. He was angry, though he could not say why. Perhaps he did not believe her, or perhaps he did and resented her for not arriving far sooner. In any event, he turned from her, and when she reached for him, he spoke calmly and deliberately and he said the most terrible thing he could think of: he called her the lover of the devil, said it was no wonder at all that the mother of a demon might wish to share her bed with a cadaver. And then he waited for her to strike him or to spit in his face.

Either would have been a more likely response than what his newly unlocked memory told him had actually occurred. _You don't mean it, Erik,_ she said. _I don't believe you. You don't mean it. This isn't you, Erik! _She put her arms around him, despite the fact that he was now a monster both within and without, and she held him until he dissolved in tears once again. They slipped to the floor beside the couch. She rocked him and hummed a lullaby.

He smiled now, looking back. It was a lullaby. He had not even recognized it previously, assumed he had never been sung one before. He remembered it now. It was not the same one Mother had sung, but they all sounded similar. It had seemed to him in that moment when he awakened that it was merely a strange tune.

He smiled at the simple tune, but moreover, he smiled because he realized at last that his fears could no longer destroy him. That day he had been terrified that he would be alone once again. It was something he could not bear at that moment, just as he was certain he could not live when Christine went away with Raoul de Chagny. He had survived. Panic and the fear of being abandoned could not take his sanity from him now. _She_ loved him. _They_ had loved him. And even if someday he had to be alone again, he could bear it for now he knew the simple fact that he was worthy of love. Yes. He knew this for certain, for he had looked into the mirror and he had seen his true self. Not perfect, no. But not a monster either. Certainly no less than anyone else.

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**Shameless Begging:** Do I actually have to ask at this point? Please comment!


	134. Chapter 134: Peace

**Another Long Author's Note****:** Ah, yes. Much spirited debate and discussion abound. I love it. I thrive on it. I'm up for having a forum discussion or something if anyone feels like it, but I don't think forums are working right now on FFN since the new format came into being. Does anyone know? When I click on forums, I get a 404: File Not Found. If they WERE working I'd be totally up for a discussion. I SO love getting those great emails and bantering back and forth over them. It might be even more fun if there were more people involved, yes?

Since we're getting to the end here, I thought I might share some things that I previously shared with individuals that the entire group might enjoy at least a little.

Silver Diva asked "Is that what it's like to be hypnotized?" I said: I can't say for certain. I've only been hypnotised twice... to be hypnotized doesn't feel much different than having a choose your own adventure novel read to you in a very soothing voice. But you have your eyes closed. And a VERY good imagination. Anyone else out there been through it? Want to throw out some suggestions? I always love different perspectives. Oh yeah... I think I also shared with MadLizzy my story of eating an entire lemon while under hypnosis and thinking it was an orange. Neat stuff that hypnosis. Gotta learn to do it.

Dernhelm, Can you please email me? I WAS going to say "post in the forum" but I can't create one right now. Anyway, I need some help with figuring out the details because your comment: "They just so invalidate Erik's fears and insecurities, if, apparently, everyone always loved him anyway" made me think of my own complains regarding Kay. It frustrated me to no end that everyone was really drawn to him the whole book and he was the only one who couldn't see it. But since you mention people other than the parents, please message me or something, because I need to know what to change to make it work. Thanks.

Silver Diva pointed out: I, too, realized long ago that Erik would have had to bonded with SOMEBODY in order to develop a true relationship as an adult. Of course, having never read Leroux, I had no idea what HIS take on the situation was. I gather Erik was just a soulless psychopath...set me straight if I'm wrong.

It wasn't MY take on Leroux, but I know there are some folks out there who get that from Leroux. Anyone up for a spirited forum debate? I am!! (Especially since now this project is FINISHED at last (yes, I still have two more posts, but the actual writing is done... I just need to edit, that's all) so I have TIME for it. Of course... once again, we have to wait for FFN to fix the darned thing...

I think it was Mominator who said: Erik's not the cold-blooded killer of Philippe, yet is NOT innocent of his death. And I especially like how you postulate that Philippe's survival MIGHT have solved Erik's problems with Christine. Is Erik responsible for Philippe's death? How much guilt should he assume in this version? Do you think based on Leroux he really just went beneath the water and grabbed him and dragged him down and drowned him on purpose? I'm not sure that would surprise me either... he was pretty cruel that night. Discussion, anyone?

MadLizzy made me laugh the hardest with this: "I imagine it was difficult for Erik to hold his breath underwater, since he has no nose...which made me wonder where exactly he stuck that reed when he used it. Did he stick it in the nose hole and keep his mouth shut tight? Thank you for that image, madame." I laugh every time I think of it. Does anyone want to speculate? His lack of nose hadn't even occurred to me as a problem until Lizzy mentioned it. Goodness, I wonder if Leroux even realized the issue he raised there. The trick with using the reed to breath underwater worked the night Erik nearly drowned Nadir. How?

**As regards THIS chapter, I don't really have anything to say other than "here it is!"**

**Standard Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

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There was much to do following these revelations, for Erik was at last a man like everyone one. One could argue that he had been all along, but a man is what he perceives he is, or what he believes others perceive he is, and so, for the first time since the year he turned four years old, Erik was like everyone else. It meant he needed a flat like everyone else, among other things, and he lost no time in finding one quite promptly, beginning his search that very same day. One might imagine with amusement the reaction of the neighbors who had whispered behind their hands in the past when Erik had dared to brave the outside world for supplies at dusk encountering him pleasantly walking down the street in broad daylight. Suffice to say there was shock and disbelief at first and it might have quickly degraded to something like horror had Erik not been so amiable that the most open of people quickly forgot his appearance and those more likely to hold onto such things merely quietly avoided him, disturbed by the uncomfortable feelings associated with the incongruity he presented.

It was the young law student Gaston Leroux who wrote the final draft of Erik's will, and it was in this way that they first became acquainted, regardless of anything Monsieur Leroux may have claimed in his widely acclaimed book. The book, I might point out, was not published until years later, and this was due to Erik's insistence that a book would either strip away his dignity or make him too plainly into either a hero or a villain. Perhaps he was ultimately correct, but at last Erik allowed Gaston to persuade him to include a single line in his last will and testament granting him his permission to use portions of the story of the opera ghost in a mystery he wished to write. "Wait until I am dead and buried," Erik insisted. "In the meantime, if law does not please you, take up something like journalism. It will serve to make you seem so much more reputable when the times comes to publish something of value." Leroux was never certain whether the remark was intended to be sarcastic or not, but he took it at face value and found that journalism served him quite well for many years.

Erik maintained with Sigmund Freud after that a rather peculiar relationship that anyone else might have called friendship. This relationship was maintained almost entirely through letters, for Freud traveled often, as did Erik in later years. Eventually Freud abandoned hypnosis entirely for analysis with the reasoning that hypnosis does not provide lasting relief. Erik, naturally, always disagreed and of course insisted upon mastering the technique for himself. _In case I ever need to use it,_ he rationalized to Elizabeth. _One can never be certain._ And when she glared at him _I wouldn't use it for anything deceptive. How could you even imagine it of me?_ Erik became quite a master of forgetting the painful past. He pushed from his mind his days as the Opera ghost as easily as he had previously pushed from his mind the rosy hours of Mazenderan. His dear friend Sigmund, that young conceited doctor, called this 'repression' and warned him—reminded him, really—that it was dangerous. This Erik dismissed it without a thought; Sigmund was always a bit too serious and had an impressive label for everything.

Eventually Erik's true appearance became known at the Opera as he adopted yet another identity, but this time he did not suffer so immensely for it, for a false nose is so much less uncomfortable than a rubber mask. The girls of the corps de ballet did as they always did: they gossiped. Little Jammes lost no time in pointing out that the new patron looked very much like the Opera ghost, who had once stood and listened to a speech then dined a the table during a mangers' retirement party, but no one paid her much attention. Everyone knew the Opera ghost had a head of fire, except Meg Giry who reminded them all that she had revealed long ago that her mother had tended to the ghost in his box and he had no head nor any body at all but was merely a voice. Besides, the Russian superstition had apparently worked; no one had seen any mark of the ghost in so very long. And besides, Regardless of whether he was handsome or ugly a patron was a patron, and patrons meant money and power and sometimes the ability to advance through means other than purely one's dancing ability.

This patron was married, so there was no danger of finding one's self duped into a relationship with someone who was quite unattractive, but the little ballerinas smiled and curtsied and generally fell all over themselves to please him nonetheless. Ultimately this worked for many including Little Giry, to whom Erik introduced the Baron Castelo-Barbecaz, who would eventually become her husband. _I promised her mother her daughter would marry an emperor_, he told Elizabeth confidentially that evening at supper. _I hope she has forgotten it, or that at the very least a Baron will do instead_. He looked regretful. Another who found herself paired up in such a manner was the beautiful but dim Marcelle who was quite honored to have her patron introduce her to a prominent German doctor and promptly left the corps de ballet to marry the much older provider, much to the great relief of the patron's own wife.

It was not long after Erik's journey through his childhood that he took the liberty of using box five once again. This time no one came close to death. He was led to his box this time not by Nadir (for Nadir was his honored guest, also being seated in the box) but by some unknown Opera employee who seemed strangely familiar.

He was still struggling to place the name, to determine whether it was someone he knew from_ then_ or from more recently when the opera began and he directed his attention as he had on opening night, to Anton, then to Christine. In the box around him Elizabeth and Nadir watched Erik more than they watched the performance, at least during that first act. There were no tears for Christine's performance this time; it was at last only an opera and no longer seared quite so painfully. There were no tears at all, in fact, save for at the very end during the final ascension of Don Juan. Erik reluctantly admitted that Elizabeth had been right—for it meant that he himself had been wrong—that afternoon on the rooftop. Indeed, it had all, at last, come true.

That evening after the production, those who knew Erik well gathered in the house on the lake for what none present realized was to be last time. Erik himself was late to the gathering as he had chosen tonight as the night in which to procure a replacement for the mirror he had shattered with a bottle all those long nights ago. He found it several levels up, on the main level. It was not what he desired exactly, but it would do for the remainder of the week, perhaps. It might be necessary to design the frame himself and have it made, for he wished for it to appear as the mirror had in the room at the end of the corridor in his mind. For tonight, however, this one was as close as he would come without leaving the confines of the Opera and leaving was not an option. Even had all the shops not been closed, tonight, Erik had visitors.

Before he hauled the mirror below, Erik inspected his appearance carefully in its surface. He was not quite the man he had seen in the mirror of his mind, but perhaps he _could _be. This was quite an improvement over what Christine had seen that first night when she tore the mask from his face as she sang Desdemona. He might improve it further, he thought, poking at his still hollow cheeks. Restored to health as he was, he was still abominably thin. This he could change, he reasoned. Alternatively, perhaps he would not bother. Perhaps he was finished obsessing over his unfortunate appearance forever. He shrugged and dragged the mirror below, not worrying to avert his eyes from the reflection that traveled with him.

As at last the small party settled in for a late evening of drinking and talking, Erik casually asked Nadir if he intended to remain at the Opera permanently now that it was no longer necessary. Nadir shrugged his shoulders. There wasn't much hope to returning to Persia, he indicated, and he had spent so much of his life at the Opera until this time. He shrugged again. What else had he to do? Erik shot him an apologetic look but laughed all the same. "Then here we are, once again," he told him. "Apparently I am still unable to rid myself of you," Erik told him. "What _are_ we going to do?"

Nadir was smiling as he asked, "What would you _like_ to do?"

It was Erik's turn to shrug. "Everything," he said. "In time. Immediately, I'm not certain. What do you suppose comes after _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

"Why, I have no idea," Nadir managed. "What else have you written?"

Erik blinked at him. What else? Why, nothing else. It was his life's work. His magnum opus. One didn't produce two of those, did one? _Was_ there even a plural to _opus_? He smiled to himself. _Opera,_ wasn't it? What _was_ he going to do next? "After _Don Juan Triumphant_," he began carefully, "we will produce something..." he paused "not... composed by me."

Nadir sat back and gave him a surprised but good-natured look. "Not by you? Why, Erik, the crowds will be disappointed!"

Erik smiled wryly. "I haven't another twenty years, Daroga," he said circumspectly.

At this the ladies voices suddenly broke forth. "Erik, don't say such things!" cried Elizabeth while Christine let out a little yelp and then turned to him saying, "But surely you are not so old as that!"

He allowed himself a smile and waved the ladies off. He didn't mean he didn't have twenty years of _life _left, though now that they mentioned it, he did wonder. He had not taken care of his body very well, after all. "I mean," he said glancing from one woman to the next "that it took twenty years to finish it. I do not have twenty years time before we shall need the next opera. That would be quite a long hiatus, yes?"

"But Erik," interrupted Christine "_Don Juan Triumphant_ only took twenty years because you rested for _years at a time_. You yourself told me so: you worked on it for _weeks_ at a time and then rested for _years_."

"Do you suppose one can compose and opera in an afternoon?" he shot back. "I prefer to put more ardor into my work." _Would_ he compose again? It had seemed once that _Don Juan Triumphant_ said everything he had wished to say, but now he could not be so certain. He narrowed his eyes and was suddenly far away from the others. There was more, certainly, but what was it? Perhaps he would find it in that mirror. Yes. He would start it right away. Shortly after—well, after everything else that needed to be done. Suddenly there was so much to do. He had not even finished caring for the organ and his room still lay undecorated.

"What then?" Nadir asked bringing Erik quickly back to reality. Anton and Christine turned their eyes expectantly towards Erik, who shrugged again.

"I hadn't thought about it. What do you think?" He glanced around.

They glanced at each other. He was asking _them_? Christine and Nadir exchanged a look. Erik, who had always been so insistent up every detail was now asking them?

"_Rusalka_?" Anton suggested with a playful glance at Christine.

She glared back. "_Carmen_," she said defiantly.

"_La Juive_?"

"Anything but that," Elizabeth said quickly, and Nadir laughed again.

"We have done that already," Erik said.

"Indeed. We have," Christine replied somberly. A look passed between them. That was _then_.

"_The Stone Guest_," Anton tried again.

"Anton, that's too like _Don Juan Triumphant_!" Christine said indignantly.

"There is nothing like _Don Juan Triumphant_," was Anton's response, but Erik shrugged. It was true; both pieces were derived from the same tale. Might as well produce _Don Giovanni_, and he wouldn't.

"_L'Arlesienne_?" Anton seemed desperate to be the individual who chose the winning opera.

"It is all right," Erik waved at him noncommittally. "We do not need to decide today." It really didn't matter, did it? Whatever came next would be splendid with his carefully selected cast. Whatever they selected next would be magnificent if he put in the time and effort to work with them. _Even if he didn't_, he dared to think. After all, he had so much to do. "Let us leave it to Fournier and LeBlanc," he said at last. "They are perhaps better equipped to decide." The irony was not at all lost upon him as the members of his small party stared at him in disbelief. Yes, he would turn operations over to others who would consider money over music and business over art. Yes, they were businessmen, and the Opera was a business after all. "I prefer to retire," he suggested tiredly. "Don't worry. If they get out of line I'll be certain to send them a note." Even Nadir managed to laugh.

Yes, Erik was a different man entirely after his revelation that afternoon in a small, unused room at the end of a hall in the Opera. That is not to say that he did not have his moments of insecurity or moments of anger, and that is not to say that he never paused to turn away from the organ putting his elbows upon his knees and his head upon his hands in sorrow at some remembered offense of the past. To say so would be unreasonable and wildly inaccurate, for passionate men such as Erik are always subject to violent emotion. It is, however, fair to state that these episodes became less frequent with long periods of time in which he merely lived interspersed. The things Erik went on to do in the twenty-some odd years he had remaining (for he did, indeed, have another twenty years) were many and varied.

First among them was to secure himself a place to live above ground.

* * *

**Author's Note and Shameless Begging for Reviews****:** Yes, this has a ring of finality to it, but there are still two more little posts that need to take place. OMG... can you believe we're done? I'm going to miss you guys so much! :sob: Do please leave your thoughts as this is one of the very last opportunities to do so!


	135. Chapter 135: Farewell

**Author's Note****:** Well, here we are. The last actual chapter. There's a brief epilogue after this, but as to "how does it end" last chapter and this tell are basically it. Yes, there's quite a lot we don't cover, but something must be left to your imagination after all. When I began this tale last March, I certainly didn't expect to be writing it for anywhere near this long. This has been a truly incredibly journey

**Standard Disclaimer****: **I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. I frequently fear that it owns me. The original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux of Blessed Memory and all of my fan fiction is intended to be Leroux-pure. Please leave all movie, musical and Kay conceptions at the door.

**Erik Plushie Note****:** The plushies are not yet ready. The artist is still making doing touch-ups and making some minor changes, but I thought, since many of us may loose touch after this, that it was important to let you know that we do plan to follow through with this project. I have asked the artist if she will allow me to post her rough sketches so that we can get some feedback from you all. I haven't heard back from her yet, but I hope to be able to let you know when I post the last post. If I don't put it up tonight or tomorrow, assume I'm waiting for the artist, okay? FFN still does not permit us to post webaddresses here in stories, so I'll try putting it in my profile. They'll probably be at wwwdotbleedingheartconservativedotcom, but naturally you have to change the word "dot" to a period. Eventually I'll put information there as to the status of the manufacturing and how to order, so please do check back often. Meantime, the site's not up yet, so hang in there.

* * *

Erik opened his eyes. Morning, perhaps. One could never tell for certain down here, but things would be different in just a few days. The bedroom in the little flat on Rue Godot de Mauroy had lots of windows and white lace curtains that would let in the sunlight. Morning would certainly never be the same again. Nothing at all would ever be the same again, Erik reflected remembering their last visit to what would be their first real home together. _You see_, he'd told Elizabeth, pulling up the ornate rug in the parlor and stomping on the wood floor beneath it. _No trap doors_. She laughed. _This closet_, he'd told her, opening a door in the bedroom and stepping inside to knock on the back wall, _doesn't lead anywhere_. The look on his face was triumphant as though an ordinary closet that led nowhere at all was quite an achievement.

And it was, really. The flat itself was like a tiny miracle. It was small and simple, certainly far beneath his means, but it was nearby, the neighbors seemed quiet, unassuming, and non-intrusive. It felt safe enough, if not yet entirely comfortable.

Erik considered sunlit mornings from his current vantage point of complete darkness. A bright sun-drenched bedroom would certainly be something different to try. He wasn't certain he would enjoy it, but he would try anything. He tried to imagine opening his eyes to brightness that was already there instead of scrabbling about in the darkness for a lamp. Wouldn't the light wake him as soon as it crept in? He supposed there was only one way to determine it for certain, and within a few days he would know. He did not bother to tell himself that within a few days the deal would fall through because humanity did not desire a neighbor such as himself. The thought still swept through his mind, but he ignored it. He could learn to be a good neighbor. He had learned to be a husband and a friend. Surely neighbor was not quite so difficult as either of those. If he could master those, he could learn to be anything.

Erik silenced his thoughts to listen more carefully. He was certain he heard a sound, a rustling outside the house. He squinted in the darkness as though it could make his hearing still more acute.

There came a sudden flourish of knocks and the sound of them was so familiar that he was certain he had heard them before, perhaps moments earlier. Yes, it must have been the sudden knocking that had awakened him as it last time—and the time before. Nadir, he thought irritably as he sat up. How many times had Nadir awakened him banging on the wall that was really a door? The fusillade of knocks repeated itself and Elizabeth stirred beside him. "Who's here?" she murmured sleepily.

"No one." Erik responded irritably, but he could not lie down again. Who besides Nadir could possibly come here? So few people knew the way. Yes, it must be Nadir, though a nagging feeling told him that was not Nadir's knocking style at all. "Surely this will stop when we move to the flat," he grumbled.

"On the contrary, dear. I should expect it would happen more often."

He gave her a startled look that she could not see in the darkness. "Indeed?"

"Certainly. After all, the front door shall be visible to the street."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. It was true. They would be still closer to Nadir, who had returned to his little flat on Rue de Rivoli. Having absorbed himself entirely with Erik over the years, Nadir's social situation had become quiet austere; no doubt he would be a regular guest. Erik groaned at the thought. Of course, in the flat the sunlight would have already awakened him, so he would not have to be ripped from sleep by Nadir's discourteous pounding like today.

He crept from the bed silently and moved across the floor. "Surely it is Nadir. I shall send him away." He was at the door, his hand upon the latch before the individual outside had sensed any movement within. "I'm not going to tell you what you were interrupting," he called angrily to Nadir.

"Erik!"

Before he realized what he had done, Erik threw open the door. That voice was not Nadir's. It was _Christine's_.

"Erik!" she said again, sounding far more startled—perhaps even a bit frightened—than only a moment before. Somehow he found it amusing more than humiliating or enraging, though. "Oh my God!" She dropped her face into her hands and he smiled at her embarrassment. Here he stood before her, sleepy and disheveled, unmasked and in pajamas. "I'm so sorry!" she burst out. I thought you were," she looked up at him at last "awake."

Come to think of it, she thought he was always awake. She had never, ever seen Erik in pajamas. She had never seen him with his thin hair so scattered either. When he slept, if he slept at all in that wretched coffin, she imagined he slept perfectly still, his arms at his sides or perhaps folded over his breast like a real dead person, with his hair perfectly in place and still dressed as for the opera. This was a wild sight indeed. She looked away but found her eyes drawn back again in a sort of morbid curiosity. She could not stop glancing at him the way one repeatedly glances at something terrifying like a building engulfed in flames. He looked so ridiculously _normal_ in those common everyday pajamas. She almost laughed aloud.

"I apologize, Christine," Erik stammered and Christine felt still more ridiculous. She had arrived, unannounced and awakened him from perhaps very rare sleep, and he apologized to her. "Please, sit." He waved at a chair. "I will," he ran a hand over his head as if realizing how he must look "go... make ready." He padded off down the hall towards his room. Christine watched him go, an amused look replacing the one of consternation she'd worn before he opened the door. She noticed he stopped short and opened the door to her room. Her room! How silly it was to still call it that, she thought. It had not been hers in a very long time. But he entered the room instead of his own. Perhaps he had been sleeping in the bed, she thought. He was, after all, trying so hard to be like everyone else. "It is Christine," Erik said aloud to the room as he pulled the door shut behind him.

Christine stared. Erik was not one to speak to himself, at least not in this fashion. Yes, there was the angry mumbling under his breath, the screaming tirades to no one that were clearly intended for her but which he could never direct in her actual direction, the strange third person talk about himself, but Erik did not speak kindly and matter-of-factly to himself. Ever. Yet plain as day he had said aloud, "It is Christine" into the room as though someone were in there. Christine felt a strange feeling course through her body. Someone _was_ in there. Christine could not forget that the torture chamber also lay within that room, and she stared at the door in shock and horror. It cannot be, she told herself. Erik has changed so much. Surely Erik is not so terrible as he once was. But he spoke so calmly, as he had on that night. And yet it was not at all as he had been that night. Who was in that room?

She knew better now that to open closed doors. It was rather like tearing masks from unknown faces without warning. She was not so foolish any longer. She simply sat very straight and watched the door and yearned to know.

When Erik emerged once again he was dressed appropriately, top to bottom, including a nose of sorts, though he had simply combed his thin hair rather than covering his near-bald scalp. Even so, he did not look so bad. Christine wondered whether he had changed or if she had simply gotten used to him. One scarcely noticed anything peculiar at all if one kept one's eyes off his face, and even then he was irregular but not necessarily terrifying. Christine met his eyes and gave him her best smile. Far too little, she supposed, and likely much too late, but she made the effort. Erik smiled back.

Ever curious, Christine could not refrain from asking, "Who is here, Erik? To whom did you speak in the Louis-Philippe room?"

"Elizabeth," he replied confusedly before he realized that Christine did not yet know.

"Erik!" she cried, a look that was positively scandalous crossing her features instantly. Elizabeth had stayed the night? Yes, she herself had stayed the night in that room, but Erik had never entered it without knocking in such a way, let alone enter the room in pajamas and come back out, moments later... Christine was positively speechless. "You—" Her mouth dropped open silently as she searched her mind for words.

"Hush, Christine. There is nothing unseemly about it. We were properly married." And when her look showed sheer incredulity he added, "In the church. La Madelaine. As I had hoped to be."

"You... what? You're... Erik!" The look on her face was such a mixture of emotions he couldn't begin to guess how she was truly feeling. "You mean you've... you've..." She stopped and stared at him. She couldn't say more.

"Yes," he said softly. "Erik has wife at last."

"But not me." It was a stupid, stupid thing to say, she knew even before the words left her mouth, but was utterly unable to control it.

"No, Christine. It is not you. It is better this way. Do you not agree?"

"I—"

Erik's face and voice changed. She did not agree. "Oh, Christine," he said softly. "It is best this way. Surely you shall have a good life with Monsieur Kuznetsov."

She sighed and looked away. "I have refused him, Erik."

Erik was truly confused at this. "You have _what_?" he asked incredulously.

"He asked last night. He came to meet Mamma Valerius and he asked it then. He wanted me to marry him, Erik. Can you imagine?"

Actually, Erik couldn't quite imagine it. Anton had insisted he was far too young to marry, yet apparently Christine had won him over, inadvertently, so it seemed. He himself had attempted to persuade him, had suggested it repeatedly, had encouraged him with tales of loneliness and why it was better to have a wife. Poor Anton. Momentarily, Erik saw Anton as himself in Act I. How bitterly disappointed he must be. Poor boy... "Christine, why?" he found himself asking.

She shrugged her shoulders and her eyes looked distant. "I rather believe I shall never marry, Erik," she said at last.

He smiled at the irony and gestured between them. "I should be the one to say such things," he suggested wryly.

"And yet _you already have_!" she said, suddenly joyful as at last she realized the magnitude of Erik's news. "I simply can't _imagine_ it, Erik." She put a finger up and pointed at him sternly. "And don't you distort my words. I am not insulting you. Do not you imply that I am. I simply cannot believe it. Not because of... of _that_, but because... because..."

He waited patiently. It would have been so easy to tease her by saying aloud that she could not believe that anyone would marry him, but then he would never know from whence her true confusion came. "Is it so strange, Christine? You knew it was what I wanted."

"Yes," she said distractedly, but remembering. "Yes a little flat above ground with a wife inside it. What happened to the little flat, Erik? Have you forgotten that?"

"No. Just managed everything in a different order. We've arranged for the flat. I expect to leave here within the week."

Christine let out a breath in a mixture between a laugh and a sigh. "Erik. Married. Just like anybody else," she said.

"I suppose so," he said. "I certainly _hope_ so. I have no idea what other marriages are like, of course. How would I? But we are _happy_."

"I am so sorry, Erik!" she said looking away, her eyes glistening.

"Whyever should Christine be sorry?"

"You had to wait so long! It's my fault."

"Oh, Christine, it is as it should be. What you did was not wrong. I told you before, I was wrong to pursue you."

"Oh, perhaps the way you went about it was a bit improper, yes, but you did so because I was too childish—"

"Not childish, Christine. A child."

She folded her arms. "Don't insult me, Erik."

"No, no. Do not misunderstand. It was wrong of me... Consider, Christine. How old would your father be now if he were still alive?"

Her face twisted in consternation. "I don't know," she admitted. "I haven't kept count very well over the years," she said.

He chuckled. "You see? I am the same age as your father, Christine. It would not have been at all appropriate."

She laughed at last, a beautiful sound that erased any trace of his guilt that still remained. "Erik married," she said again, but she was smiling now and her blue eyes were wide and shimmering. "It is so hard to imagine!"

He folded his arms and pretended indignance. "And why is it so hard to imagine?"

She laughed again. "It will sound preposterous, perhaps" she said carefully, "but I am surprised, Erik, because to me you always seemed to innocent."

He laughed aloud, apologized, and laughed again while she sat glaring.

"Forgive me Christine," he said, still chuckling. "I have been called so many things by so many people, but you surprise me today. This is something I have never been called before. _Innocent?_ Are you quite certain you understand the meaning of the word?" and when she merely glared at him "I? Erik? Are you quite well, Christine?"

Her voice was quiet. "You know what I mean, Erik," she said seriously.

He was sober instantly. "My _thoughts_ were never innocent, Christine," he said.

"But you seemed that way to me," she said, slowly understanding that Erik had never been either as terrible or as wonderful as she had thought him to be. She had never understood it until now. He had tried to explain that he was neither ghost nor angel, but only Erik. He was neither terrible nor wonderful; he was only human. "I think I understand," she said softly. "Sweet, protective Erik. Sometimes, I think perhaps you really _were _sent to me by my father."

"Oh Christine!" It was such a kind thing to say.

There were tears in her eyes as she rose, went to him and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, Erik, I shall miss you so much."

"Miss me, Christine? I will be a mere four blocks away!"

She looked at him in surprise. "Four blocks?"

He shrugged and looked mildly embarrassed. "I have lived down here too long. I wasn't ready to go far away. Someday, perhaps, I shall. Someday, I may even travel again. For now, a little flat four blocks away. And I will be here daily, of course—"

She nodded soberly. "I understand," she said. "Someday, then. When you are ready, perhaps you shall visit me."

"Visit you? Christine, I told you—"

But she held up a hand and shook her head so violently that he stopped suddenly and looked at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"Erik, _I'm_ leaving. I'm going home. To Sweden. It's... It's something I need to do."

He nodded and allowed her to embrace him again. This time he said goodbye without tears. It might be the last time he would see her, but then, he had been so certain of that on the night he sent her away with Raoul. It occurred to Erik to wonder as he kissed Christine's hand in final farewell what had become of the younger de Chagny at last. There was perhaps an explanation and restitution to be made. He could not know that the young man would return to Paris shortly after Christine's departure.

When Elizabeth emerged at last, Christine was already gone. Erik was in the kitchen, dry-eyed and making coffee.

* * *

**Shameless Begging****:** I don't even know what to say here because... well... Christine is gone and in perhaps just one more day, so will I be. Yikes.


	136. Chapter 136: Author's note and Plushies

Hi everyone!!

I'm sorry to disappoint... but this is NOT the epilogue. The epilogue is a bit delayed due to real life intervening BUT I did want to post this note to let you know that more is coming, first in the form of an all encompassing totally summing it all up epilogue. And no, it does not necessarily mean there can't be a sequel, though right now I'm not working on a sequel to this because... well... technically it already IS a sequel. Adding a third would create a trilogy and THAT is a problem because... well... it was already going to be the third in a trilogy. Of course, having a fourth book in a so-called Trilogy puts me in very good company—with the likes of Douglas Adams whose "Hitchhikers Trilogy" reached five books before his untimely death... but I digress. Let's move on to more important things.

Like PLUSHIES!!

You can currently view a draft of our Leroux-based plushie at the artists Deviant Art account. It's still under editing because we're changing Erik's shade of yellow and a couple other little details, but if you have the slightest interesting in buying one—or even if you don't—you REALLY need to check him out. When I came up with the idea, I didn't entertain the hope of him being this incredibly cute. So here. Check out the link.

Now, check this out. FFN doesn't allow us to type in links, so you have to alter this very, very carefully. Copy and paste this link into your browser and change the word DOT to an actual dot in both places.

http://biskuitsDOTdeviantartDOTcom/art/Erik-Plush-initial-design-103064448

* * *

I'm still playing with the text for Erik's tail tag (don't worry... he doesn't actually have a "tail." It'll probably go on the tail of his coat) and I have to get my husband the lawyer to edit it so that the copyright is legal and such, but here's the draft:

Front of tag

Limited Edition  
Leroux's Erik  
The Original Opera Ghost  
The protagonist of Gaston Leroux's classic _The Phantom of the Opera _has a skeleton frame, eyes set deep as those in the skull of a dead man, pasty yellow skin stretched drumtight, a terrible hole for a nose and only a few long dark locks of hair behind his ears, but his heart is capricious enough to contain the whole world.

Back of tag_  
The Phantom of the Opera_ by Gaston Leroux was published in 1911 and is in the public domain in the United States of America. Plush design © by Elizabeth Gibbs, licensed to Six Point Design. All rights reserved.

Please feel free to leave feedback here, on her DA account, on my DA account or anywhere else you can. The more comments, the better. Thanks, and thanks again.


	137. —fini—

**Author's Note****:** Gosh... When I posted the last chapter I said "So Christine is gone and in a day or so, so will I be" and then I didn't return to post this epilogue for WEEKS. I honestly believe that is the LONGEST I have ever gone without a post, exceeding even the trip I took with my family in March which prevented me from reaching a computer for just over a week. I sincerely apologize for this last minute slip and will say only that it relates to excess seasonal stress from work, psychiatric issues with the children in my home and a bit of food poisoning that occurred toward the end of last week. I have, however, survived it all to post for you this final wrap-up to all things relating to this story. (And if I missed a detail, please please PLEASE let me know so I can go back and add it in. I HATE to leave stuff incomplete...)

**Standard Disclaimer****: **If you've gotten this far you're well aware that I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_ (it actually owns me), that the original _Phantom of the Opera_ was written and copyrighted by Gaston Leroux, and that all of my fan fiction (especially this piece) is intended to be Leroux-pure.

**Erik Plushie Note****:** Final details being worked on at the moment include what this fabric we like is called and how much it costs. Anyone know what the Universal Pictures plushes are made of? The tag just says "polyester" and that's not all that helpful. For those who haven't seen the design yet, go to biskuitsDOTdeviantartDOTcom/art/Erik-Plush-initial-design-103064448 to get a look. (Note, you have to change the word "DOT" to an actual ".".

* * *

So at last ends the tale of the Opera ghost, for Erik was by no means a ghost of any sort any longer, and within two days time, he was no longer in residence at the Opera. The Louis-Philippe furniture of the bedroom, the grand organ, the piano in the parlor—all these things remained beneath the Opera and could quite likely be discovered by someone industrious enough to spend the time to study the third level carefully to determine the place where the set piece and the piece of scenery from _Le Roi de Lahore_ were once housed. Other things, such as the scorpion, the grasshopper, and Erik's mother's quilting which had graced his bed on his wedding night went with them first to the flat, then to the house, and eventually to the country estate. The scorpion posed upon the mantle, something between a warning reminder and a bit of twisted humor. The grasshopper Elizabeth kept in the drawer of her bedside table even after Erik had long forgotten why he had insisted she do so.

Christine did indeed leave France immediately after her final visit to Erik, and though she intended it to be only for a brief time, she did not return for years. Naturally, she had been immature and hasty in commenting to Erik that she would never marry. She did, eventually, though it was to neither Raoul (who married quite satisfactorily to a woman of his class within a year of his return from his unfortunate North Pole mission) nor to Anton but to a man in her native Sweden; a man who, like her father, played the violin and traveled from city to city to share his music. It was in this way that at last she found the contentment that had always been incomplete with either Erik or Raoul and most certainly with Anton.

It was not long, either, before Anton returned to Russia. He who had always said he was far too young to marry felt his loneliness immensely after Christine's refusal. Apart from his family and his people in a strange city with few friends, he had nothing except his potential career with the company. Indeed, Erik was correct: music was not _everything_; it could not fill the empty place inside him. Anton counted himself fortunate to have discovered such a truth so much earlier in life than his beloved director. "Besides," he rationalized passionately, "I have already performed the lead role in the greatest of operas." Anton's apparent awe of Erik and his work seemed never to diminish. "What more is there for me to do? A subsequent role would be insignificant by comparison." Erik welcomed the praise and did not argue. A boy of that age must make his own decisions, after all. Had he not, by Anton's age, traveled half the world alone? Anton, however, returned home, made peace with his father, studied medicine and took over his father's practice. Contrary to his own projected opinion of himself that night in Erik's cellar, Anton was far better than merely a mediocre physician; he threw himself into medicine with the same passion as he had music.

Upon Erik's death the Opera was willed to Elizabeth, but as she failed to survive him by thirty days (indeed, she followed him directly as though nothing remained for her in the world without him) it was restored to the people of Paris per his wishes. He had, at last, made his peace with the people, for though he was never entirely accepted by all, he was granted the peace of mind of having been welcomed by a few and left in peace by the rest. The remainder of his wealth was divided among his children. Yes. _His children_. Contrary to popular belief, there were indeed children of Erik, both natural and adoptive, some common in appearance and others a bit peculiar. In France today there are quite a few descendants of the man who was once known as the Opera ghost.

In those later years during their travels, Elizabeth had written quite extensively on the psychological effects of physical deformities, but psychology and medicine being what they were in those days—strictly a man's profession—her work was not taken seriously. It did not pain her quite as immensely as it once would have, however, for she had her vast family to care for, and they kept her quite busy. It was not until some eighty years later that the world of psychology discovered what most mature women have known instinctively for generations. The concepts were introduced by an American therapist, Carl Rogers, who gave them clever labels such as "unconditional positive regard" and "empathetic understanding." Naturally, by that time, the men of the world were at last ready for such ideas. Sadly, Elizabeth's work on the matter was never published and has subsequently become lost.

In the meantime, when Rogers himself was a mere child six years of age, Gaston Leroux at last published Erik's story. Or rather, Monsieur Leroux published _a portion_ of Erik's story, choosing to end on a tragic note with the presumed death of Erik, and using for evidence of that death a body that was exhumed when the phonograph records were buried beneath the Opera. It was perhaps a stroke of genius by Leroux to note the gold ring on the man's finger and connect it with that which Erik had given Christine years earlier. It could not be _that_ ring, however, for in the end Christine had carried it off that morning "so as to always remember him" after vowing never to marry. That ring remained with her, moving to the other hand when she did at last marry, but continuing upon her finger always, until her death and beyond, being buried with her, per her wishes. As to the poor corpse beneath the Opera: a last trick by the trapdoor lover? A victim of the Commune? One cannot say with certainty for Erik was not available for comment.

Perhaps Leroux himself placed the ring upon its bony finger to spark interest in his macabre telling of those some three months in which Erik relentlessly pursued Christine. Whatever the case, Leroux always wondered whether he should have diverted further from reality or perhaps kept closer to the truth, as in his time the novel was not received particularly well. I am told, however, that many years later it became wildly popular.

—fini—

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I'm gonna miss you guys..... :sniff:


	138. Chapter 138

Hi everyone!

I know what you're thinking... how can there possibly be more to this story now? Well, there is and there isn't. I don't know yet whether there will be a sequel to this one. There MIGHT be, and if there is, I'll post a notice here. In the meantime, I do want to let you know this story is undergoing SERIOUS revision. Going back through, I can't believe some of it and how it doesn't fit with other parts of it, but hey, that's what time does, right? Anyway, I AM going to do a prequel to this, which, of course, would be the time right before this, therefore a retelling of Leroux, but with all the stuff that Leroux left out, without diverting from his actual storyline at all. It's slow going, but I hope to post chapter one this weekend.

In the meantime, something MUCH more fun is going on over at my DA account where the Erik Plush Project continues to progress. Erik is CURRENTLY IN PROGRESS and pictures will be available very soon. In the meantime, please check out my poll question here and my market research at the Erik Plushie Project site. (Go to my profile for details. THANKS!!)


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